


Guilty Filthy Soul

by Tenukii



Category: Blue Oyster Cult, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Most Wanted - DJ
Genre: Crack Relationships, Dom/sub Play, Dominant Phasma, F/M, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, I don't care how improbable it is, I had to fix it, Inspired by Music, Slow Burn, Stuttering, Sub DJ, Tsundere Phasma, and DJ's just his usual jackass self but in love, suicide references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-20 17:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13151130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenukii/pseuds/Tenukii
Summary: When DJ rescues Phasma planning to hold her for ransom, his life gets excessively complicated: no one wants her back, she’s badly wounded, she can still kick his ass, and he’s falling in love with her.





	1. Chapter 1

You gotta look her in the eye  
And you gotta love your way of life  
'Cause you got a guilty filthy soul  
Don't you know it's out of your control?

\--AWOLNATION, “Guilty Filthy Soul”

\--

Her blue eye burned up at him from within the cracked helmet, as full of resentment as any eye that had ever looked at him—and plenty of eyes had held plenty of resentment for DJ over the years.

“Look, you really n-n-need to take the helmet off,” he argued.  “Your face is probably burned, and I _kn-n-now_ it’s bruised, I can see it right— _ow!_ ”  DJ yelped when Captain Phasma smacked away the hand he’d been reaching toward her face.  He shook the sting out of his hand and shoved it into the pocket of his coat, then glared down at her and chewed on his lip.

He didn’t get it.  She’d taken off the rest of her armor as soon as he got her on the ship.  Yeah, she took it off _slowly_ , had to with a broken arm and a broken leg and a broken who knew what else, but she took it off on the bunk and sat there in her tattered black bodysuit and treated her burns herself with one of the ship’s medical kits.  DJ watched her do it, despite the scorching glare she turned on him from time to time.  Didn’t give him a single word of thanks for saving her hide—and he was a little surprised to discover that she even _had_ a hide under all that chrome—just glared at him, and did it with only one eye because she left the damn helmet on.

When DJ had tried to help her with an especially nasty burn, already blistering up the shin of her broken leg where she couldn’t quite reach it, she’d slugged him in the jaw.  He generally prided himself on keeping his temper, but he couldn’t help grumbling that she was an ungrateful bitch.

In response, Phasma spoke the only sentence she’d said to him thus far: “You should have left me to die.”

DJ had already made sure there wasn’t anything in the cabin she could use to hurt him, so he made a second pass to double-check for anything she might try to off herself with.  The only weapons left in the room were Phasma’s fists and feet (and her mouth, probably, but with the helmet on, at least she couldn’t bite him), and while DJ was smart enough not to underestimate those, he figured she was mostly harmless until her broken limbs could be set.

“Don’t you want some painkillers?” DJ asked Phasma after another couple minutes crept by.  “There’s plenty here, and it’s gonna be a while before I can find you a m-m-medic where we’re going.”

The blue eye had been staring, vague and unfocused, at the rip in Phasma’s leggings that exposed her blistered shin; but at DJ’s comment, she pinned him with her glare again.

“Where are you taking me?” she snapped.

DJ replied, “Where I told your General Hu-hu-hux I was going when we n-n-negotiated for my payment—somewhere on the edge of the galaxy where I can get n-n-nice and lost.”

Phasma’s eye burned with all the fire of a blue-white star, and she snarled, “Not with me, you are _not_.  If you’re intent on ransoming me, why would you take me _away_ from the First Order?”

Sighing, DJ began, “Look, lady—”

“ _Captain._ ”

“ _Captain_ Lady, m-m-my plans changed.”

“I suppose you think you’re being funny,” Phasma hissed.

“No, I don’t stutter to be funny,” DJ replied, deadpan, but her eye wavered in its glare for the first time.

She glanced aside and muttered, “I was not referring to _that_.”  Then she looked right back at him again and demanded, “Then what are your ‘plans’ now?  The First Order will pay you nothing to ensure my return.  _Nothing._ ”

DJ frowned as he pondered this.  He started to sit down on the edge of the bunk, but when Phasma drew back her good leg a little, he realized he was inviting a literal kick in the ass.  He resorted to leaning against the console by the bunk instead and drumming his fingers against it.

“I kn-n-now your reputation, Captain,” he muttered.  “You’re invaluable to them—to General Hu-hu-hux especially.  When they learn that you’re still alive, and that _I_ rescued you—”

“You are wrong.”  She spoke without shame, and without breaking eye contact with him.  “They will not want me back.  I am worthless to them now that I am damaged.  General Hux would be the first to tell you that you have wasted your time.”

For a moment, DJ just stared at her.  Yeah, the woman—okay, the _captain_ was hurt, and hurt pretty badly, but it wasn’t anything that wouldn’t get better.  When DJ looked at her, he saw a soldier taller than him and stronger than him, with powerful arms and legs that went on for miles and a finely honed body that would heal quickly enough with the right care.

Finally, he blurted out, “Listen to you, you’re talking like you’re a m-m-machine—a ship or a droid or something.  ‘ _Damaged_.’”

“No,” said Phasma, “droids can be repaired.”

“Well so can you—I m-m-mean, you’ll get better if you—”

“You have not answered my question,” the captain spoke over him.  “Why are we flying toward the edge of the galaxy?”

“Because whether the First Order is going to want you back or not, this isn’t a good time to swing by for a chat,” DJ informed her.  “Last I heard, they did track what’s left of the Resistance down to the surface of that planet you guys were so sure they were eying—but the Resistance is fighting back.”

Phasma turned her head toward him so sharply, her battered helmet rattled.

“Fighting _back_?”  The sheer disbelief in her voice amused DJ, despite his irritation at the whole situation.  The woma—captain sounded so utterly _amazed_ that the Resistance hadn’t just given up and surrendered. . . even though they hadn’t given up and surrendered any of the other hundred or so other times their cause seemed hopeless.

 _Whatever sort of head’s under that helmet, it’s full of ideals and opinions on how things are supposed to be,_ DJ decided as he nodded solemnly at Phasma _.  Sometime, I’ll have to ask her just how that’s different from the Resistance fighters she despises so much._

Aloud, DJ went on, “With you already being _damaged_ and all, I decided to get us both away from the fighting for a while.  Get you he-he-healed up, and let things calm down.  Even when your precious First Order finally has their little Resistance problem ha-ha-handled, I’m sure they’ll welcome you back, despite your concerns.”

She glared up at him with the one eye, and he gazed back until he thought of something else and added with a shrug, “And uh, if the Resistance should m-m-manage to come out on top—since they seem to ha-ha-have that kind of dumb luck—I bet _they’ll_ pay for you too.  I bet they’ll pay a _lot_.”

The blue-white star of an eye widened, just for a second; then it narrowed and cut straight into him.

“You cowardly, duplicitous _scum_ ,” the captain hissed.  If she meant to make DJ feel guilty, she didn’t succeed.  In fact, it gave him a little thrill to hear a woman like her calling him names like that, not that he’d ever let her know it.

Instead, DJ shrugged again and said, “Yeah, well, so you’re better’n m-m-me.  You don’t gotta keep that bucket over your he-he-head to prove your point, so why dotcha take it off and let m-m-me fix your face?”

She blinked her eye.  “Better than. . . what _are_ you going on about?”

“Oh, you know,” DJ retorted with feigned casualness, “you’ve got your perfect en-n-nunciation, and your belief that since you’re a little scuffed up, you’d be better off dead.  All those pretty, high-minded convictions that m-m-make you a captain first and a person n-n-never.”  His fingers drummed faster against the console without him realizing it, until they sounded a rippling tattoo as he finished: “Hu-hu-hiding your face doesn’t m-m-make me feel like less than you—the m-m-most you’ll get out of it is an infection from not treating those burns.”

Phasma sat silent a moment; then she leaned toward him a little and said, “Take it off me, then.”

DJ hadn’t expected his rant to have any effect on her, but she seemed to mean it—at least, that eye stayed fixed on his face when he reached for the helmet, and she didn’t try to hit him this time.  He grasped the bottom rim of the dented helmet and lifted.  Phasma hissed when some of her burnt skin came away with the faceplate; even DJ winced at the sound it made.

Yet when he set the helmet aside on the console and got his first look at her, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.  Phasma had a couple old scars and the nasty fresh burn on her cheeks, and there was the bruising he’d seen where the helmet had cracked around her left eye.  She had a pretty, oddly innocent-seeming face framed by short blond hair all mussed and sweaty from the helmet and the fire and nearly dying and everything.  Now two starry blue eyes glared up at him, wide-set in the angelic and slightly sooty face.  Even “damaged,” DJ decided, the captain was a looker.

“You’d’ve ended up with a hu-hu-hole in your face if you left that thing on m-m-much longer,” he informed her as he rummaged through the first aid kit for more antiseptic.  She didn’t reply, but she held still for him to clean the burn on her cheek.  In fact, she barely even flinched although it must have stung like hell.

When he was finishing up, DJ asked her, “You want anything to eat?”

“No,” she said.

He sighed, trashed the used antiseptic pad, and tried again: “Anything to drink?”  Phasma didn’t answer until he turned and looked down at her again, eyebrows raised.

She wasn’t even looking back at him, but she muttered, “Yes, water.”  Then she lifted her eyes up to his and added in the smallest, most reluctant voice he could ever imagine her using, “Please.”

“Sure,” DJ said, and he sauntered off to the galley reveling in how gracious he was being.

Phasma downed the whole glass of water he brought her without pausing for breath, but she refused when he offered to bring her another.  She also refused when he asked her a second time if she wanted the painkillers, even when he told her he wouldn’t leave them with her in case she changed her mind.

“Of course you won’t,” she replied, “because I might inject them all at once and kill myself, and then you wouldn’t get any payout from the First Order _or_ the Resistance.”

“Right,” DJ muttered.  He tossed the hypodermic he was holding back into the first aid kit and slammed the lid shut, then tucked the kit into an interior pocket of his coat.  “Call on the intercom if you change your m-m-mind, or you n-n-need anything else.  I won’t lock you in since I guess even you can’t get very far on a broken leg, Captain.  I’ll trust you n-n-not to steal the ship out from under m-m-me.”

“Even if I could take control of the ship, where would I go?” Phasma murmured, looking down at her muscular legs in their ripped leggings.  DJ knew she wasn’t asking him.  “What use could I be to anyone now that I’ve failed the First Order?”

DJ turned away from her and headed for the cabin door.  He was already certain she wouldn’t use the intercom, wouldn’t ask him for anything—she’d have to eat something sooner or later, but to get her to do it, he’d probably have to beg on his hands and knees or something.  (And hell if that thought didn’t give him _more_ than a little thrill.)  He was halfway out the door when she stopped him.

“DJ.”  He froze in the doorway until Phasma asked, with less confidence, “You did say that was your name, correct?”

“Yeah. . . ?”  DJ came back in a few steps, until the automatic door slid closed behind him with a “snick.”

Phasma drew in a breath, then said all at once, “I do not think I’m better than you—except for the fact that you _are_ a coward, _and_ duplicitous, _and_ scum if you’re truly considering making any deals with the Resistance.”

DJ smiled a little and said, “Oh, I’m n-n-not offended at _that_.  You can call m-m-me scum if you want, I’m kinda starting to like it.”  Her eyebrows quirked upward slightly before she continued.

“I would never judge your worth based upon how you speak or what you look like, only upon your actions—and I should thank you for those.”

DJ hid his surprise by folding his arms over his chest and scoffing, “ _Really_.”

Phasma narrowed her eyes but replied, “Yes, really.  You should have left me to die, but you did not, and you’ve been kinder to me since then than you would have to be.  So.  Thank you.”

“Then you’re welcome, Captain,” DJ said.  She nodded, and just maybe there was the faintest hint of the tiniest smile around her mouth.  DJ thought he could learn to like that mouth quite a bit, and that it might even be worth all the trouble that would inevitably come along with it.

“I’ll get you to a doctor soon,” he promised.  “And uh, if you’re right and the First Order’s too stupid to want you back. . . I’m gonna be n-n-needing some protection with a fancy ship like this.  Someone who can fight, kinda watching m-m-my back.”

“That sounds like your problem, not mine,” replied Phasma.  But then she glanced over at her old helmet, and the look on her bruised, blistered face made DJ think she might change her mind, eventually.

“Right,” said DJ.  He started for the door again, then stopped and said over his shoulder, “If the hu-hu-helmet thing was about your looks, you shouldn’t’ve worried.  You’re awfully pretty, you kn-n-now.”

Indignance burned in Phasma’s eyes at the same time as a blush burned on her cheeks.  But then she pursed her lips and replied, “You know. . . you’re not.”

DJ threw his head back and cackled with a laugh that kept him smiling all the way back to the bridge, and a good while after that besides.

\--

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that Heineken commercial where Benicio gives himself a case of beer for Christmas? Yeah, it’s _that_ laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

Along with the intercom in the cockpit, DJ found controls for a few video feeds hidden throughout the ship.  Apparently, its previous owner had been kind of paranoid.  As tempting as the idea was, he refrained from using the system to spy on Phasma in her cabin—if she caught him doing it, she’d probably slaughter him, broken limbs or no.

Instead, DJ settled in to see what sort of useful information he could find out.  Things like, where he could get lost without getting bored, where he could spend or give or waste his reward from the First Order while he waited for all the fuss to die down.  But also things like, where on the way was a medic or healer or _something_ who could treat Phasma, because no matter how tough she was, she wasn’t going to recover otherwise.

_And then,_ DJ thought as he scanned ship-to-ship hailing frequencies using one hand and thumped the other on the console next to the intercom, _I gotta think what to do once I actually find a medic.  Maybe just leave her there if she’s right about them not wanting her back.  If there’s no pay-off involved, maybe she’s more trouble than she’s worth._

Between the data in his own ship’s computer and the sparse chatter he managed to pick up, DJ had just gathered enough info to start brainstorming a route when movement on one of the video feeds caught his attention.  DJ glanced over at the small video running to the side of his screen just in time to see Phasma emerging from her cabin.  He stared as she starting working her way down the corridor by hopping on one foot and bracing her hands on the walls.  She dragged her broken right leg behind her, but even so, she moved pretty fast.

“What the h-h-hell’s she doing?” DJ muttered to himself.  “She’s gonna bust h-her ass—”  And a second later, she did just that: after another hop, Phasma wobbled on her good leg, then it gave out on her.  She went down hard on her bent knee, her hands skidding down the walls as she tried and failed to stop her fall.

The video feed didn’t have sound, so DJ couldn’t tell if Phasma cried out or not, but the look on her face told him it had hurt plenty.  There was a mixture of pain, frustration, and plain old anger in the way she bared her teeth and narrowed her eyes.

DJ weighed his options.  He could pretend he hadn’t seen anything and leave Phasma to get herself back up, or he could go help.  In hesitating, he wasn’t just being lazy or apathetic (although he excelled at both)—he had his own well-being to consider.  Phasma might not _want_ help, and she certainly would not be happy he’d been spying on her.

Then he realized she wasn’t even trying to get up.  The captain just sat there on the floor, left leg under her and broken one stretched out.  As DJ squinted and tried to figure out what she was up to, Phasma raked her hand through her dirty hair from her forehead to the nape of her neck.  After that, she dropped her hand and her head at the same time.  She looked completely defeated.

“Well, sh-sh-shit,” DJ sighed before he got up and headed for the corridor.

He made more noise than usual on his way back, thumping his hands against the walls and even whistling to be sure she heard him coming.  When he got close, DJ breathed in deep before he rounded the corner to face her.

She was already pissed, he knew it, even though he was at the far end of the corridor from her and her cabin.  Phasma’s blue eyes narrowed again and aimed right at him.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped.

“Looking over m-m-my new ship, or do I n-n-need your permission for that, Captain?” retorted DJ.  When she did not respond except to keep glowering at him, he grumbled, “Are you okay?”  He was sorry he even bothered to come check on her, but he might as well do it now that he was there.

“Of course.  I’m fine,” Phasma informed him.

“Just sitting on the floor in the h-h-hall, hunh?  You do look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

He was sorry for that, too, when her face fell.  It only lasted for an instant before she caught herself and just looked grouchy again, but for that instant Phasma looked hurt, and humiliated.  And DJ felt guilty, for the first time in a long, long while.

Still, when he went over to her and reached down a hand, Phasma drew back with an indignant, “I don’t need any help!”

“Come on,” DJ groaned, “it’s just quicker this way.”  Her eyes flicked from his hand to his face; then she finally grabbed his hand.  DJ barely held back a gasp at how strong her grip was.  She could probably break his damn hand if she wanted to.  But when he tried to pull her up, it didn’t work; she nearly dragged him down instead.  She was that strong and heavy due to her height and muscles.

“I’ll h-h-have to lift you,” he said, and Phasma scowled.

“No.  Kneel down so I can put my weight on you.”

“Fuck,” DJ hissed under his breath.  Kneeling in front of Phasma gave him all kinds of thoughts he shouldn’t be having, but he did it and kept his mouth shut.  She put her good hand on his shoulder and pushed up.  DJ almost tipped over between the pressure on one shoulder and the distraction of having her tits right at eye level for a second while she balanced herself in a crouch.  Finally Phasma stood up again, wobbled a bit, then steadied herself with her hand back on the wall.

Somewhat reluctantly, DJ stood as well and asked her, “Where were you trynna g-g-go?”

She answered curtly, “Shower.”

“You’re insane,” he shot back.  “Those burns’ll h-h-hurt like shit under h-h-hot water.”

“Then I will use cold water.  Get out of my way.”

DJ was amused, scared, and turned on all at the same time.  Phasma _was_ being ridiculous, but she was also still dangerous, and the way she ordered him around drove him the good kind of crazy.  That and the unbidden mental image of her wet and naked, burns or no burns, was almost too much to take.

He managed to stutter, “You c-c-can’t, there’s n-n-no way you can stand up for that long, and b-b-bathe with one h-h-hand.  You’ve g-g-gotta take c-c-care of yourself if—”

“I am trying to.  The smell of the smoke is all over me, and even if the burns have been sterilized, the rest of me has not.”  Phasma voice sounded as cold and flat as a droid’s, except for the faintest hint of condescension, as if she had to explain herself to an idiot.

That snapped DJ right out of his fantasies.  He could take (and even enjoy under the right circumstances) being called scum, a coward, or any number of other criticisms, but he was no idiot.  DJ’s intelligence was the one quality he had going for him, and no uppity bitch was going to demean that.

He took a step back, raising his hands in the air, and said, “H-h-have it your way.  You’re on your own.”  As he turned away from her and ambled off down the corridor, he called over his shoulder, “Turn off the shower if you wipe out in there, ‘cos I won’t come looking for you.  M-m-may be a long time before I find a place to land and dump your ass, and I can’t afford to waste water.”

Something—either the implication that she’d fall again, or the threat to leave her in the shower if she did—finally got to the high and mighty captain.

“Get back here!  _Now!_ ” she demanded.  DJ smirked to himself.

_I’m not one of your brainwashed stormtroopers.  Nobody left to follow your orders anymore, Captain,_ he thought as he rounded the corner out of her sight.

_“DJ!”_ Phasma hollered after him.  She sounded pretty upset—not just pissed, maybe a little scared even.  DJ almost went back to her, but instead, he shook his head and made his way to the bridge.

\--

With Phasma out of the way, DJ worked out his flight path to a small planet that was almost all ocean and not on any official maps.  He’d managed to confirm the planet’s existence, and the fact that a reputedly talented healer lived there, via the dark holonet, and he could only hope the sketchy maps he found there were accurate.

“Sounds like one h-h-hell of a place,” he muttered to himself as he read up on the planet.  No holonet access, 95% ocean, only one space port through which the inhabitants traded their single export: oyster byproducts, produced by what was alleged to be an esoteric and oyster-based cult.  Fun times.

_But I’m not the one who’s gonna have to stay there,_ DJ thought.  _She’ll have to find her own entertainment, ‘cos I’m cutting out soon as I get her to that healer._

Except that Phasma still hadn’t made it out of the shower (he’d checked her room and the corridor on the cameras), and DJ was feeling guilty, again.  Especially when he remembered how she’d sounded calling his assumed name as he ditched her.

Just as he started to wonder if he should check on her after all, the intercom buzzed.  DJ sighed with more relief than he should be feeling, then answered with a disinterested, “Yeah?”

“DJ.”  Phasma cleared her throat.  “Could you do something for me?  Please.”

“What?”

“I need—”  She stopped again, and DJ was certain she was going to ask him to pick her up off the floor.  But instead she continued, “Could you see if there are any extra clothes on board?  My bodysuit tore apart when I tried to remove it.  The material must have been damaged by the heat besides what was already torn.”

“Oh.  I—I s-see.”  DJ’s mouth went dry, and he had to cough before he went on, “All right, I’ll look around.”

“Much obliged,” said Phasma.

DJ poked through the storage areas of his ship, but the only spare clothing aboard was the First Order uniform he’d “borrowed.”  General Hux never asked for it back, and he’d even had someone retrieve DJ’s regular clothes, upon DJ’s request.  DJ much preferred them, with their pockets and allowance for freer movement, than the confining uniform, so he’d changed as soon as he got a chance.

He had tossed the uniform in a corner of the cabin he’d chosen to use, and now he retrieved it and tried to smooth out the wrinkles.  Although it was tailored for a man, DJ thought it would probably fit Phasma too.  Might be a little big through the shoulders and tight through the chest, but she was certainly tall enough for it, at least.

DJ carried the uniform to the head and buzzed the intercom.  “Captain?  I found something.  I’ll leave it outside the door and you can—”

The door slid open before he could finish, leaving DJ facing a slightly damp and almost naked Phasma.  She’d wrapped a white towel around herself, but it only covered from her chest to about two inches down her thighs.  That left a _lot_ of leg visible, and even though said legs were bruised and blistered, they were very nice legs for all that.

“What did you find?” Phasma asked.  She looked straight at DJ with no sign that she noticed how discomfited he was.

“Uh, there’s n-n-nothing on board except this,” he told her as he held up his arm to show the uniform draped over it.  “The First Order uniform I borrowed.”

“That will do,” said Phasma.  Yet instead of reaching for the uniform or telling him to leave it, she moved aside from the doorway with a little hop then looked back at him.  When DJ just stared at her blankly, Phasma ordered, “Well come on.”

“Uh,” said DJ.  She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly with impatience, and he managed to ask, “You want m-m-me to come in there?  With you?”

She growled, “I cannot put that jacket on by myself without the use of my arm.  If you do not wish to assist me, leave everything and I will wear what I can.”

“It’s not that I m-m-mind h-h-helping out, but. . . I’m g-g-gonna see uh, _you_.”  Even as he stammered, DJ wondered why Phasma made him so nervous.  He’d never had a problem before when a woman got naked in front of him, and it wasn’t like he _didn’t_ want to see where those fabulous legs led.  Yet here he was, protesting.

“I would prefer you did not,” Phasma replied to his statement, “but there is no alternative if I’m to wear that.  And I do wish to wear the jacket if possible.  It will afford more protection than only a shirt when we disembark.”

“If you insist,” DJ sighed.  He went in with her and draped the uniform over the sink.  “So uh, what do we start with?”

Phasma leaned back against the wall to steady herself and used her good hand to flip through the articles of clothing.

“Shirt,” she announced, pulling the white shirt out of the pile.  “Then jacket. Then if you will help me get the broken leg into the pants, I believe I can finish by myself.”

“Uh, okay, cool,” DJ mumbled.  Phasma tossed the shirt to him, then tugged the top of her towel down to her waist.  DJ straightened the shirt out and reluctantly looked over at her.  He somehow managed to keep his eyes on her face.

“What n-n-now?”

“Put the broken arm through the sleeve, then I can put the good arm through.  You will have to do up the buttons, however.”  DJ’s distress must have shown on his face, because Phasma looked away and murmured, “I apologize for asking for your assistance with something you do not wish to do.  The buttons can remain undone since I will be wearing the jacket.  They are unnecessary.”

It took DJ a minute to meander through her excessively formal language before he protested, “N-n-no, I’ll do it.  It’s fine.”  He gulped and edged closer to her with the shirt.  Phasma cradled her broken arm with her other hand, and she lifted it so he could start working it into the sleeve.  DJ focused on her arm to avoid looking at her chest; the arm was in bad enough shape to merit some attention anyway.

“We’re gonna n-n-need to make you a sling,” DJ told Phasma as he pulled the shirt cuff on over her slender hand.  “Maybe a towel will work for that.  And I dunno h-h-how good it is to put fabric right on a burn like this.  M-m-maybe we should’ve bandaged it.”

Phasma replied, “This will do,” but then she made a soft, pained noise when he pulled the sleeve up over the break in her lower arm.

“Sorry, sorry.  I’m trying not to h-h-hurt you—”

“You are not hurting me,” she retorted.

DJ cut his eyes over to her face and smirked, “You’re a liar, Captain.”  She scowled at him, which only made him smile more although he didn’t press the issue.  Instead, he announced, “Okay, that’s g-g-got the sleeve on this arm.  The other one should be quicker.”

“Just hold the sleeve up, I can put it in myself,” Phasma muttered.  She did it roughly, too, so that the fabric must have irritated the blisters on that arm; yet she made no sound this time.  Once she had the shirt on, she muttered, “You really don’t have to do the buttons if you wish not to.”

“No, I want to.  I m-m-mean, n-n-not want to, but—but I will,” DJ tried to reassure her as he started buttoning at the bottom.  Phasma’s stomach was mostly unscathed, and DJ admired it on his way up, but when the shirt started getting tighter, he paused.  He had no choice to look at her breasts at that point, and he decided he didn’t ever want to stop looking, either.

“You got a bad burn h-h-here,” DJ informed Phasma, “and you’re all scraped up on the other—uh, side.”

“I am aware.”  DJ heard the slightest hint of amusement in Phasma’s voice, and he quickly finished buttoning and grabbed the jacket.  He was more careful with Phasma’s arm as he helped her into it, and he used a clean towel for a makeshift sling.

“It does feel better like this,” Phasma observed.  She pinned him with her eyes and said with dead seriousness, “Thank you, DJ.”

DJ decided he liked the way she said his pseudonym when she wasn’t shouting it.  He nodded and mumbled, “No problem,” as he fumbled to pick up the pants.

“So just the legs then?”

“Yes.  Just a moment, it will be easier with me sitting.”  Phasma sat on the edge of the counter then nodded to her broken leg.  “If you can put them over my feet, I can do the rest.”

This required DJ to kneel again, and doing so before her bare legs gave him even dirtier thoughts than the first time.  He pulled each leg of the pants over her feet and stood up before he got himself into trouble.

“Uh, there.  I’ll g-g-go wait outside, okay?” he stammered.  “If, if you want m-m-me to h-h-help you back to your cabin.”

DJ was already sidling toward the door, but he paused when Phasma told him, “I am not going back to the cabin, I’m going to the bridge.  I want to know where you are taking me.”

“Okay, fine,” DJ said with a shrug.  “The offer still stands—do you want h-h-help or n-n-not?”

Phasma only hesitated about a second before she replied, “Yes, wait for me, please.”

“Right.”  DJ went out the door and let it close behind him.  Out in the corridor, he leaned against the wall and laughed softly at himself.  He’d really believed he could just leave Phasma behind on some backwater planet and forget about her!

_It’s a lost cause, I’m fucking smitten,_ he informed himself.  _Of all the plans I’ve fucked up, this may be the fucked-up-est._   Despite that, DJ couldn’t bring himself to mind too much.

\--

To be continued


	3. Chapter 3

When the door slid open again, DJ turned his head to see Phasma leaning in the doorway.

“You m-m-managed, hunh?”

“More or less.”  Phasma looked down at herself and frowned as she muttered, “They are too loose in the waist and too tight in the hips.”

DJ studied the way Phasma’s hips pulled the fabric taut across her abdomen, then observed, “They look fine to m-m-me.”

Phasma raised her head to regard him with a blank expression.

“Anyway, you’re n-n-not gonna find anything b-b-better around here,” DJ muttered as he went to stand at her right side—good arm, broken leg.  “Now c’mon, I’ve been away from the b-b-bridge too long.  If you put this arm around my shoulders and I put m-m-mine around your waist, it should work.”

She was still regarding him with that blank expression.

DJ flushed and tried to explain, “Look, pretend I’m a crutch or something.  I don’t know h-h-how else to h-h-help you.”

Phasma tilted her head a fraction of the inch to one side and asked, “Why are you so flustered about being close to me?”

“I’m n-n-not!  You’re the one s-s-staring at m-m-me like you d-d-don’t want m-m-me to touch you—”

“You are projecting,” Phasma declared.  “Do you dislike touching women?”

“What?  N-n-no!”

“So it is only I you do not wish to touch?”  Her lovely eyes bore into him, and damned if she didn’t even lean her head in a bit closer to his.  “Are you afraid of me?  Or do you find me repulsive?”

“Fuck _yeah_ I’m afraid of you!” DJ growled.  “There’s about a h-h-hundred ways you could kill me if I let my g-g-guard down!”

Phasma informed him, “You are correct about that.  Even damaged as I am, I could kill you.  With one hand.”  She paused; then as if it had just occurred to her, she said, “I could do anything I want with you.”

One side of her mouth quirked upward, just a little, and her pupils dilated, just a little.  DJ realized she was enjoying herself.  A second later, he also realized he was getting hard.

_Always at the worst time,_ he thought.

Aloud, DJ retorted, “Well, you’d b-b-better not kill m-m-me if you want help g-g-getting to the b-b-bridge.”  The predatory look on Phasma’s face vanished, somewhat to his disappointment.

“All right,” she said, like she’d really been considering it until they struck a deal.  Phasma lifted her right arm and curled it around DJ’s shoulders.  He wrapped his left around her waist and held her close to his side so he could bear her weight and spare her broken leg.  Feeling her body against him, even through her jacket and his coat, did not lessen his hard-on at all.

Still, the plan worked.  They moved forward slowly, but faster than Phasma could have alone.  DJ felt her breath hitching with pain or effort, and her arm held his shoulders in an iron grip.  _She must be in more pain than she’s letting on,_ he thought.  He paused halfway to the bridge to give her a chance to rest, even though she protested.

“Why are you stopping?” Phasma demanded.

DJ looked over at her and replied, “Gotta catch m-m-my breath.  You’re h-h-heavy.”

Phasma looked back at him and responded, “You’re weak,” without missing a beat.  DJ chuckled and felt gratified when she almost smiled.

After her breath came easier, Phasma said, “You should have kept this uniform on.”

“Yeah?  Why?  You wanna wear this b-b-badass coat, right?”  She really did smile then, and he felt her body tremble with a brief, suppressed laugh.

“I shudder to think where that thing has been.  And you have rested enough, let’s go,” Phasma commanded.  DJ started forward again, but he still wanted an answer to his question.

“Really, why should I have kept the uniform?” he asked again.

She stayed silent for a couple seconds before answering, “It suited you.  You looked—respectable.”

“Ha!  All the more reason to ditch it.”

Phasma drew in an audible breath then said, “If you cleaned—cleaned up you could pass—for an officer.”

DJ shook his head.  “No thanks.”

“You should still—clean up.  When did _you_ —shower last?”

Before DJ got too offended, he realized he couldn’t remember.  They hadn’t offered him any such luxuries in jail on Canto Bight, and before that, he’d been through a car chase, lengthy gambling stints at two casinos, and. . . yeah, his last shower had been just after he got a room to dump his stuff while he worked.  A lot had happened since then.

“Okay, fine, I’ll take one after I g-g-get us h-h-heading the right way,” he muttered to Phasma.

“Thank you—urgh.”  They had just reached the edge of the bridge, but Phasma was so shaky, DJ had to stop there with her.

“You okay?” DJ asked her.  When he glanced over at her again, he saw sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip.

“Yes.  I—”  She shivered and tightened her hold on his shoulders before admitting in a defeated tone, “I do not feel very well.”

“You n-need to sit down.  We’re almost there, come on,” DJ told her, although he worried that sitting down wasn’t nearly all she needed.  Phasma gave a sharp nod and struggled with him over to the copilot’s chair.

“Now, h-h-hold on. . . .”  DJ moved in front of her and put his right arm around her waist, along with his left.  Phasma flushed indignantly and started to speak, but he interrupted, “Hang on to m-m-me, I’m gonna sit you down.”  She clutched his shoulders with her good arm without protesting.  DJ edged forward and eased her down into the chair as gently as he could.  Phasma cringed when her ass hit the chair, but then she let out her breath and seemed to relax.  She didn’t let go of DJ’s shoulders right away, so he didn’t let go of her waist.

“Okay?” DJ murmured.  He looked down into her sweaty, blistered, scraped up face and, when she flicked her eyes up to his, decided she had to be the most beautiful woman in the entire galaxy.

“Okay,” said Phasma.  She licked her pale lips and added, “Thank you, DJ.”

“Yeah.  N-n-no problem.”  She let go of his shoulders, so he let go of her waist and backed away.  “Do you want those painkillers n-n-now?”

“No.  Stop asking,” Phasma snapped.  DJ huffed under his breath and went over to sink down into the pilot’s chair.

“Most _stubborn_ woman in the galaxy,” he muttered out loud.

DJ got to work putting his new flight plan into the computer, but Phasma interrupted him to point out, “I have no doubt this ship has a tracking device on it somewhere.”

“Already removed it,” DJ told her without looking away from the display.

“And the computer has likely been programmed to transmit its location back to—”

“Disabled that.”

“What about the—”

“ _And_ that.  I kn-kn-know how to avoid being tracked, okay?”

After that, Phasma just watched him work.  She studied the composite map he’d put together and observed, “This does not look like any star maps I’ve ever seen.”  DJ couldn’t tell if she was suspicious, or just curious.

He grumbled, “It shouldn’t, since I just m-m-made it.”

“We’re following a map you just made up?” Phasma hissed.

DJ retorted, “No, I said I _m-m-made_ it.  By layering all the shitty m-m-maps with our destination on them.  Because they’re _all_ shitty, this is the best I can do, but at least it g-g-gives me an idea of where we’re g-g-going.”

As he spoke, he showed her the layers he’d compiled.  Phasma asked more quietly, “Where did these come from?  They still look unusual.”

“Dug ‘em out of the dark h-h-holonet.  This planet’s s’posed to be a secret, so it’s n-n-not on any ‘usual’ m-m-maps.”  When Phasma didn’t reply, DJ turned to look at her.  She was now studying him instead of the map.

“How do you know to do all this?” she asked in an even softer voice than before.

“I’m a slicer?  It’s what I d-d-do.”

“You. . . I thought you were just a thief,” murmured Phasma.  “You must have very high intelligence.”

“So I’m not as d-d-dumb as I look, that’s what you’re saying.”  He glared at her then turned back to the maps.

“DJ, that is not what I said,” Phasma sighed.  She sounded exhausted, and when he sneaked another look at her, she had her head tilted back and her eyes half closed.

DJ set the ship on course, then closed up the maps and locked the computer. . . . _Just in case,_ he thought.  When he got up from his chair, Phasma opened her eyes and looked up at him.

“I’m g-g-going for that shower you said I n-n-needed,” DJ mumbled.  She just nodded.

Back in the head, DJ could hardly tell she’d been there.  Somehow, Phasma had managed to tidy up after herself with one working arm.  She’d left a wet bar of soap in the shower, but that was it.

DJ stripped, even took his rings off, and got in.  It all felt great—the hot water, the steam, everything.  And yeah, Phasma had been right: he was dirty.  And tense, and pretty damn exhausted himself, all things he hadn’t realized until now.

He scooped up the soap and started scrubbing it over his chest, and then he thought about Phasma rubbing that same bar of soap all over her body, and there went his dick again.

“For fuck’s sake,” DJ muttered.  He tried thinking about other things as he finished washing, but his mind kept going right back to her.  Finally he decided to jerk off and get it over with.

It didn’t take long.  Just remembering how Phasma looked at him and the way she sounded when she said, “I could do anything I want with you,” got him all the way hard.  DJ stroked his cock and imagined what “anything” might entail.  Those muscular thighs would feel perfect gripping his waist—no, gripping his neck and holding him down on his knees so that he couldn’t get away when she told him she wasn’t letting go until he made her come, and he could only use his mouth—  That was as far as he got before he came himself.  Not his greatest performance, but it got rid of a lot of the tension.

DJ washed off again, then hurried to dry off and get his clothes back on.  _She could be up there plotting a mutiny,_ he thought as he jogged back to the bridge.  Because he was worried about _that_ , not about _her_.

When DJ reached her, he thought Phasma really might be plotting a mutiny: she had somehow gotten into the locked computer and was flicking among several screens, including the map and what looked like someone’s personal messages.  _His_ personal messages, to be precise.

DJ cursed himself for leaving his inbox open when he set the lock codes.  Holonet messages had to jump through about a billion hoops before they reached him or left him in order to mask his identity and whereabouts, but he did prefer having some way of receiving communications in case any interesting jobs came up.  He’d been pretty smug about how secure his system was. . . maybe a little too smug as it turned out.

“How’d you g-g-get on the computer?  I locked it,” DJ grumbled as he sank down in the captain’s chair.

“I’m sure it will come as a surprise to you, but I do know my way around computer systems.”  Phasma glanced over at him and added, “For a slicer, you are not very good at making up lock codes.  It took me less than a minute to gain access.”

“I used easy ones on purpose!” DJ growled.  “I didn’t think you’d try to m-m-meddle!”

“I believe you mean to say that you did not think I would be smart enough to break them, easy or not.”  Now she looked at him full on with those eyes of hers, and even though she wasn’t smiling, he could just tell that she was smirking internally.  DJ looked away and sulked.

“What’d you want in there, anyway?  You b-b-better not’ve changed our course.”

“Of course not.  Although you still have not told me where we’re going,” Phasma replied.

“I’m n-n-not _gonna_ tell you, either,” muttered DJ.

Phasma didn’t say anything in response, but she did close up everything she’d been looking at, then leaned back in her chair with a slight wince.  After a minute of silence through which DJ stewed, she spoke again.

“I did not know you had a nickname.”

“‘DJ’ _is_ a n-n-nickname,” he informed her in as haughty a tone as he could manage.

“I meant in addition to that.”

When she didn’t explain further, DJ grumbled, “What’re you talking about?”

“May I use it in referring to you, Kitten?”

“Wha—oh fuckin’ h-h-hell,” he groaned.  At the same time, his face felt like it had caught on fire.  “You actually looked at m-m-my m-m-mess, messages?”

Phasma spun her chair to face him, and now she didn’t bother even trying to hide the smirk.  “That man seemed awfully angry, and awfully insistent on finding you.  Did you run out on your boyfriend?”

DJ couldn’t even stutter for a second; then he finally managed, “N-n-n-n-no!  I m-m-mean, he’s n-n-not—he’s a c-c-cop, Phasma!  N-n-name’s Pol Ipol.  And yeah, I ran out on h-h-him, when I skipped outta jail on Canto B-b-bight.”

“That seems plausible,” Phasma mused.  Her expression had gone from smirky to intent again.  “But _why_ would a law enforcement officer call you _‘Kitten’_?”

“The h-h-hell should I kn-kn-know?  M-m-maybe I remind h-h-him of a stray cat.”

Phasma raked her eyes over him and concluded, “That also seems plausible.”

“N-n-never m-m-mind that, just stay out of m-m-my personal life!  You have n-n-no right to—”

Phasma interrupted him coolly, “To learn all I can about the man holding me captive?”

DJ exploded, “Fuck that, I’m n-n-not h-h-holding you anything!  All the m-m-money in the g-g-galaxy isn’t worth the trouble you’ve caused m-m-me!  Far as I’m concerned, you’re on your own once I g-g-get you to a m-m-medic, and g-g-good riddance!”

He didn’t think he could take it if she stayed all calm and cocky after that, but Phasma looked and sounded as angry as he did when she retorted, “Any trouble you are in is your own fault for being such an irresponsible, treacherous leech!  And all I’ve learned about you so far is that you might be good at slicing and cheating and stealing, but what you _really_ excel in is running away!”

“Yeah?  Well I learned a few things about you, way before I ever m-m-met you,” DJ taunted her.  “You’d be surprised h-h-how much leaked data is out there about the F-F-First Order, and about you, _Captain_.  Can’t say anyone’s ever accused you of running away, b-b-but you sure d-d-don’t have much room to call m-m-me treacherous.”

_“What?!”_ Phasma all but shouted at him.

“I’m a cheater and a thief, and you’re a f-f-fuckin’ liar and m-m-murderer!  Anything to survive, right?  M-m-more like anything to cover up your m-m-mistakes!”  DJ was telling the truth about leaked data and what he’d learned.  He really had read all the files he could find on the First Order, just in case he ever had a run-in with them.  At the time, DJ hadn’t paid any closer attention to Phasma’s file than any of the others, so now he was especially grateful for his good memory.

DJ knew the information had been accurate, too, from the way Phasma’s cheeks flushed.  They stood out red in contrast to the rest of her pale face, and her eyes seemed unnaturally bright.

“You fucking piece of _shit_ ,” she hissed.  Then she shuddered, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply from between her parted lips.  At first, DJ didn’t know what the hell she was doing, maybe some sort of meditation crap to calm herself down.  But when she opened her eyes and they couldn’t quite focus on him, he thought, _Something’s wrong, something besides her injuries._

“Phasma?” DJ asked hesitantly.  He was still pissed at her (and maybe a little hurt), but he was worried too.

She blinked and shook her head a little before turning her chair away from him, muttering, “I’m fine.”

_You’re still lying, Captain,_ thought DJ, but he didn’t press the issue.

\--

To be continued


	4. Chapter 4

When Phasma awoke suddenly, she did not know where she was or what sound had disturbed her sleep.  Her brain could not move beyond processing the fact that everything _hurt_.

Her eyes flew open, and she fought to lie still and silent until her brain could catch up on whatever had happened to put her in this position—and then it _did_ catch up and she remembered it all.

The traitor.  Fire.  DJ.

_I fell asleep on the bridge of his ship and that noise must have been—_   She cringed when she heard it again.  _. . . Him snoring._

Phasma braced herself for the pain and tried to sit up.  It was worse than she expected: flares of agony from her broken leg and arm, prickling torches from the burns and blisters.  She could have pushed through all of that, but her head was swimming too.  The dizziness forced her to lie back again, and even then it did not dissipate entirely.  And she was cold, very very cold.

After taking a moment to recover her bearings, Phasma realized that she must have reclined her chair before falling asleep, and now she couldn’t get out of it.

_Get up!_ she ordered her body, which refused to acknowledge the command.  Her breath came faster as she shifted her focus to holding back a wave of panic.  _What’s wrong with me?_

Phasma turned her head slowly until she could see DJ in the faint glow of the ship’s displays.  He slept sprawled in his own chair with his head thrown back and his mouth open, which explained the snoring.  Looking at him overwhelmed her as much as trying to move had.  She felt the same uneasy sense of lost control.

She wanted to wake him, but she would not because ( _all the money in the galaxy isn’t worth the trouble you’ve caused me_ ) she did not need him.  The sick feeling would pass, and then she could sleep again.  Because she did _not_ need him, even though he had been kinder to her than anyone else Phasma could remember.  Even though his eyes could be so warm when he looked at her ( _you’re awfully pretty_ ); even though he was the first person to touch her in so, so long.

_I do not need him.  He only helped me because he wants to sell me to the highest bidder, and he can be as cold as he is warm.  He does not care about anyone’s welfare except his own—and neither do I._

She tried to turn her head away, and it throbbed with pain and vertigo.  Phasma bit her lip to silence the cry she felt rising, then reassured herself, _I will be fine.  It will pass.  I will be fine._

_I feel like I’m dying._

Phasma stretched out her right arm as far as she could toward DJ’s chair.  Her fingers could just reach his arm, and she pushed on it.  When he did not wake, she hissed, “DJ!” and shook his arm.  Finally, he stirred.

“Hnnh?” DJ mumbled, then “Oh. . . .”  He turned his head towards her and asked, “Yeah?” around a yawn.

“I—I feel. . . .” Phasma began, but then could not remember what she had meant to tell him.

“You feel what?”  DJ yawned again before opening his eyes all the way and really looking at her.  He frowned, sat up, and raked his hand through his messy dark hair.  “You don’t look so g-g-good, Captain.”

“Bad,” she finished.  “I feel bad.”  Explaining any further would take too much effort.

“What’s wrong?” asked DJ.  When Phasma didn’t answer him, he moved to squat next to her chair and look closely into her face.  “Phasma? Is it pain or. . . .”

She shook her head before he could finish, and just that small movement made it swim again.  She forced herself to clarify, “Vertigo.  And cold.”

“You’re cold?  But you’re all sweaty.”  DJ put his hand on her forehead and winced.  “F-f-fuck, you’re burning up.  You g-g-got a f-f-fever, that’s why you’re cold.”  Phasma realized that while his hand was cool against her forehead, the coolness felt good.  The rest of her skin also felt too sensitive, so that her clothes were hurting her all over, not just where she’d been burned.  DJ was right: she did have a fever, which likely meant that one of her wounds had become infected.

“Don’t m-m-move,” DJ was telling her.  “I’ll be right back.”  He vanished from her line of sight, and she could hear his footsteps moving away.  Phasma closed her eyes and marveled that she didn’t want him to leave her.

He came back quickly enough and crouched beside her again, where he announced, “I’m g-g-giving you a shot of the d-d-damn painkiller.  Says it reduces f-f-fever too, so don’t bother arguing with m-m-me.”  Phasma hauled her eyes open to see DJ prepping a syringe.

“Fine,” she mumbled.  It wasn’t worth arguing about.

“Guess it doesn’t m-m-matter where you g-g-get it, so where do you want it?” DJ asked her.

“Hip.  Arm is too much trouble. . . because of the jacket.”

“So you don’t care if I see your ass, hunh?”  DJ sounded flippant, but he looked into her eyes as he said it.

“Don’t care,” Phasma confirmed.  DJ nodded and tried to tug her waistband down on one side to expose her hip.  When that didn’t work, he rocked back on his heels and looked embarrassed.

“I, uh, I’m g-g-gonna h-h-hafta un, undo your—your pants,” he stammered.  Phasma had already figured out that he stuttered more when he was flustered.  It was. . . cute.  (Of course she would never describe anything, and certainly not DJ, as “cute,” but she could not think of the correct word in her condition.)

She told him, “Go ahead,” and he gulped and nodded again.  Phasma closed her eyes and tensed her stomach muscles when she felt his hands touch her waist to unzip the pants.  They were shaking, but then DJ seemed incapable of keeping his hands still.  Always drumming his fingers on something or running them along—

Fingertips brushed her abdomen on accident, and her over-sensitive skin tingled at his touch.  He muttered an apology and the touch withdrew.  She did not react, but what if she’d said, _No, keep going, lower, run your restless fingers lower and touch me. . . ._   Oh, how _that_ would make him stutter!

Now his hand was on her waist again but at her left side, pushing her pants down over her hip.  Only fabric moving on her skin, until another hand (shaking) closed over her hipbone and tugged up.

“Can you turn on your side m-m-more?  I kn-kn-know you’re on your b-b-bad leg, but I can’t reach. . . .”

She turned, letting him help by pulling on her hip.  Then when she lay on her right side, his hand slid closer to her ass and held her still while something icy cold rubbed against it, up high and close to her hip, but on her ass all the same.  She realized he must be sterilizing the spot where he would inject her.

“Okay, it’s g-g-gonna h-h-hurt, probably.  You ready, Captain?”

“Yes. . . .”

He pushed liquid fire through her skin and into the muscle underneath.  It kept burning and burning, and she tried to think of something else.  Burning, she had burns from the fire back there too, hadn’t looked at them, wondered how bad it looked.  Finally he pulled the needle out and she made only the softest noise of pain but he heard her anyway.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. . . .”  Fingertips massaging the injection site, i.e. her ass, and the other hand running back and forth from her hip down her back and up again.  Both hands shaking.

_Touch me until you stop shaking.  Put your hands all over me._

“Is that b-b-better?”

The edge of her pain was fading as the shot took effect, and although she still hurt, her body felt far away.  That was why she had kept refusing the painkillers, she didn’t want to feel like this, numbed and out of control.

_Never stop touching me._

“Yes.  It’s. . . it’s getting better.”

His hands slid back to her hip and helped her lie flat again and withdrew.  Then fingers fumbled with the pants zipper, brushed her skin and made it sing.

_Feel how wet you’re making me.  Slide your hand down and feel it and then do something about it.  Don’t leave me burning._

But his hands were gone until she felt the coolness of a damp washcloth on her face wiping the sweat away.

“Phasma, I’m worried about you.  I’ve been staying out of h-h-hyperdrive since I d-d-don’t know exactly where this planet we’re g-g-going to is, but I’m g-g-g-gonna use it.  You n-n-need a m-m-medic ASAP.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded.

“But. . . it won’t h-h-hurt you, will it?  M-m-might make the vertigo worse.”

The washcloth rubbed over her neck, pushed through the ends of her damp hair on its nape.

“Do it.  I—I will be all right.”

His bare hand touched her forehead again, first his fingers, then the back of his hand.  It moved to cup the side of her face.

“You f-f-feel so h-h-hot.”

She turned her cheek and pressed it into his hand.  It cradled her face and more fingers came to stroke her hair just above her temple on the other side.  She grasped his wrist and pulled it down, put her hand over his, held it against her face.

“Your hands are so cool. . . .”

She slid his hand down to the side of her neck and held it there against her burning skin while she nestled her cheek into his palm.  His thumb moved up her neck and stroked her jaw just under her ear.

“You’re b-b-burning up.”

The calloused thumb scraping over her skin made her shiver and break out in goosebumps, and her nipples stiffened and hurt like everything else.  If he would just put his hands all over her, all the pain would go away.  Her lips touched the heel of his palm, and when she spoke, her tongue brushed it and she tasted salt on his skin.

“Touch me, DJ. . . .”

“F-f-fuck, Phasma— _shit!_ ”

She had pressed her mouth to his palm.  He shook like crazy.

“Ph-Phasma, I—I g-gotta sit d-d-down and p-p-pi, pilot this thing.  I g-g-gotta let g-g-go.”

But his trembling fingers stroked her neck and throat, and then slid up into her hair.  His other hand still shook, but the heel pushed up against her mouth.  Now when she spoke, her mouth caressed it wetly.

“No, DJ.  Don’t stop touching me.”

“I, I, I—”  He was bent down with his face in her hair and his mouth pressed to her ear whispering fiercely, “You d-d-don’t kn-kn-know what you’re d-d-doing to, to, to m-m-me.  You’re outta your h-h-head.”  A breath, drawn in long and hard.  “I c-c-can’t t-t-take this, Phas.”

Then he was gone, hands, mouth, all of him.  No more touches, but she could hear him nearby, coat rustling and rings clacking together.  She almost fell asleep before he spoke again.

“Okay, I’m g-g-gonna put it into h-h-hyperdrive.  H-h-hold on, Captain.”

It didn’t hurt, but vertigo and nausea overwhelmed her.  She felt like her mind was leaving her body behind.  She heard herself whimper even though she had her teeth clenched because she would never, never make a sound so weak and pathetic as that.  It occurred to her that this might be how she died, not burning up in a conflagration but trying not to puke on a spaceship; then she passed out and nothing hurt anymore.

\--

To be continued


	5. Chapter 5

DJ was a nervous wreck by the time they reached the little blue planet called Moana.

He wasn’t the greatest pilot in the galaxy, and he hadn’t known precisely where he was going, so using the hyperdrive had been bad enough.  And then he thought Phasma had fucking died until he realized she’d only fainted—yeah, she was _only_ unconscious on top of being burned and broken and sick with the Maker knew what giving her a fever.

(And making her delirious, but he was not going to think about that.)

Finally, though, DJ located what had to be the planet of oysters and not much else.  As they sped towards it, he pulled up his data on the healer supposed to live there.  She had a name he couldn’t pronounce, and she was said to dwell far from the space port or any other above-ground cities, along the coast near the largest undersea temple of the oyster cult.

DJ had nothing else to go on, so he pictured something like an ancient, oyster-obsessed mon cal in a saint’s habit.  He beat his fingers rapidly against the console and muttered, “I wonder if it’s b-b-blasphemous to eat the oysters.  And if h-h-hot sauce is a thing there.”

He’d always talked to himself, but now he wished Phasma was awake to listen.  Or not listen, she’d probably ignore him.  She probably didn’t like oysters either.  If she’d ever eaten anything like that, didn’t sound likely from what he knew about her.

Was it oysters that made you horny?  That was one of the few things he couldn’t remember, maybe it was something else.  If he could get her to eat some down there on Moana, he might find out.

“D-d-don’t even g-g-go there,” DJ scolded himself.  But it was hard not to think about her when there was nothing else to distract him and the ship felt like it wasn’t making any progress toward the planet at all.

DJ got up to check on her.  When he laid his hand across Phasma’s brow, her skin was still warm, but not scalding like before.  Hopefully, that meant the fever-reducer was working.  DJ wiped her face again, carefully avoiding the burns and scrapes; then he dropped the wash cloth and returned to his chair.

The ship had been making progress after all, and eventually DJ took the controls again to guide it into orbit around Moana.  Once he was over the hemisphere where the healer lived, he brought the ship down into the small planet’s atmosphere and started scanning.  Moana’s surface really was mostly water, mottled with groups of islands here and there.  The scanners picked up few to no lifeforms on land, until DJ approached one of the larger scattered islands.

A knot of beings underwater, just beyond the coast. . . and there, one on land, not far from the water’s edge.

DJ landed the ship on an open stretch of beach nestled in between expanses of rocks.  His outer cameras showed no signs of civilization except for one: a small structure which appeared to be a run-down beach cottage.

“Yep,” DJ observed to no one.  “That’s the h-h-home of a squid saint all right.”

He locked down the computer—securely, this time—then got up for a final look at Phasma.  He’d had a vain hope that she would regain consciousness before he had to disembark, but she was still out cold.  DJ spoke to her nevertheless: “Listen Captain, I’m g-g-gonna g-g-go find you a m-m-medic, okay?  I’m comin’ b-b-back, I promise.  Quick as I can.”

DJ beat his hands against his thighs for a second; then he lifted one and drew it over her hair before he left.

\--

Even though Moana’s sun hung low on the horizon, the beach was awfully bright.  DJ squinted as he shuffled through the sand, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, towards the healer’s ramshackle home.  The thing looked like it had been made of driftwood that had drifted for far too long to be sturdy.  But whatever, he didn’t have to live there.

He approached the side of the cottage opposite the blue-green sea.  The door there looked surprisingly sturdy compared to the rest of the place, and DJ pounded on it with his fist without worrying _too_ much that he’d literally bring the house down.  As he listened for any kind of response, he glanced back at his ship now about a hundred meters away.

What if Phasma woke up and thought he’d ditched her?  (Just like he’d promised to, a couple of times now.  And no, he was _not_ going to feel guilty about it.)  What if she was just pretending to be unconscious until he left, and right that minute she was slicing back into the computer to take control of the ship and ditch _him_?  (After all, he had plenty of proof he couldn’t trust her.  She was the kind of woman who’d stab a guy in the back and call him embarrassing nicknames and steal his ship and then expect him to thank her for not just killing him instead.)

What if she. . . what if she died before he got back with help?

DJ hammered on the door again.

Finally he got a response: a feminine voice shrieking, “Just a _minute_!” in an exasperated tone.  The voice sounded a lot younger than DJ would expect for an ancient squid saint, and he wondered if he had the wrong place.

A small panel in the door slid open and a pair of eyes peered out at him.  They were large, limpid, hazel eyes with horizontal pupils and long lashes.

“Who’re _you_?  And whaddya want?” the young, feminine voice demanded.

“I’m looking for a h-h-healer,” DJ informed the owner of the eyes and the voice.  “I h-h-heard one lived h-h-here.”

The eyes narrowed, and the voice asked, “What you need a healer for?”

“My—my. . . .”  He started to say “friend,” which Phasma was most certainly _not_.  DJ began again, “That’s m-m-my ship over there.  I g-g-gotta sick woman on b-b-board.”

“Sick how?  What’s wrong with her?”

DJ was beginning to get impatient.  He didn’t believe in the goodness of anyone, saints included, but they at least were supposed to put on a façade of caring, right?  If the saint did live there, she should have picked a friendlier doorkeeper.

“I—I don’t know, a lot!” DJ growled.  “She g-g-got a f-f-fever and started talking crazy, and then she passed out.  Can’t wake h-h-her up.  And b-b-before that, she—she g-g-got hurt, bad.  Two broken limbs, and she’s b-b-burned.”

Gratifyingly, the hazel eyes widened as he spoke.  Then their owner blurted out, “What in Dagon’s name did you _do_ to her?”

DJ yelled, “I d-d-didn’t do _anything_ except save her ass from b-b-being barbequed!  Just lemme talk to the h-h-healer, _please!_   She could be d-d-dying over there!”

The panel slammed shut, and then finally, _finally_ the whole door opened.  DJ took a step forward, then yelped and jumped back when he saw the tip of something sharp jab forward toward his midsection.  Once the girl at the door emerged, DJ realized the thing was a harpoon, specifically a harpoon mounted in a harpoon gun.

“D-d-dontcha think that’s overkill?” he stammered.  The girl made a “hmph” noise, and DJ looked up from the gun to one of the cutest little faces he had ever seen: heart-shaped with a pointy chin and up-turned nose, those big eyes, and looped blond braids on either side of her head.  She clutched the gun with a pair of tentacles instead of arms, and several other tentacles emerged from beneath her skirt.

But that cute little face was glaring daggers at him, and she still had the harpoon pointed directly at his stomach.

“You _really_ got someone sick in that ship of yours?  Which you just landed on private land, without permission?”

DJ snapped, “Yeah, sorry to m-m-muss the sand dunes, b-b-but it’s an emergency.  Are you g-g-gonna let me see the h-h-healer or not?”

“I _am_ the healer!” the girl retorted.  She finally lowered the tip of the harpoon and let it rest in the sand, but she kept her eyes fixed on DJ.

“ _You’re_ the. . . okay, f-f-fine.  So will you come see Phas—I m-m-mean my woman, I mean _the_ woman?”

The healer looked DJ up and down, then sighed, “Yes, on the chance you’re telling the truth.  You said she’s unconscious?”  When DJ nodded, she asked, “Will you be able to carry her?  If she’s as bad off as you say, I’ll need to treat her here.  I can’t be hauling all my supplies back and forth.”

DJ admitted, “I, uh, I d-d-don’t think I can carry her.  She’s h-h-heavy—really tall, really m-m-muscular.”  He was a little surprised when the healer nodded, since she had seemed so put out about everything else.

“Okay.  Just a minute,” she told him; then she retreated inside and slammed the door.  DJ glanced back at the ship again, but the healer returned within a moment, holding a mass of heavy cloth in her arms.  She shoved it at DJ with a terse, “Carry this.”

“What is it?” he asked as he fumbled with it and the healer picked up her harpoon gun from just inside the door.

“Sailcloth.  I don’t have a stretcher, but I think we can carry her in that.”  The octopid girl started toward the ship with DJ trailing behind her, and she commented over her shoulder, “You still haven’t told me who you are.”

“DJ.  I’m a g-g-gambler.”  Close enough, anyway.  “And you’re Oc—uh, Oct—”

“Octavia Flavia Cephalia Seaforth,” she rattled off.

“Oh.  I d-d-don’t know if I can remember all that.”

“I go by Tavia.  Do you think you can remember that much, Mister DJ the Gambler?”  Tavia looked back at him, and DJ decided she was teasing him.  Her expression was still a touch wary but mostly just curious, and her mouth (which was a little cupid’s bow of a mouth) was almost smiling.

DJ didn’t know much about octopid culture in general, but if Tavia was any indication, Moanan style was as rustic as he had guessed.  Despite being young, Tavia had dressed in a drab skirt (knee-length, if she’d had knees) and blouse (high cut).  She wore leather slippers over the tips of her lower tentacles and walked on them like they were six legs, each moving independently.  Yeah, the whole package was pretty cute, DJ decided, but not his thing, really.  Except maybe for the gun.

Tavia kept that at the ready even after boarding the ship.  DJ didn’t argue.  Let her be as suspicious as she wanted since he couldn’t really blame her—he would be doing exactly the same in her position.

DJ led Tavia to the bridge but stopped her at the entrance to call out, “Captain, you awake?  Phasma?”  Tavia side-eyed him, and there was no response from Phasma.  DJ sighed and motioned for Tavia to follow when he entered and went over to the copilot’s chair, where Phasma still lay unconscious.

“Are you two with the First Order?” Tavia demanded of him when she saw Phasma’s uniform.

“Heh, I ain’t with n-n-nobody,” DJ announced.  “Her, she used to be.  N-n-now she’s, uh, retired.”  Again the horizontal side-eye, but Tavia shrugged at the same time.

“Long as you don’t expect me take sides, it doesn’t matter.  Moana’s neutral, and we keep off the lidar so it stays that way.  Or at least we _try_ to.”  She gave DJ a full-on front-eye and added, “We’re going to have to talk later about how you found me.”

“. . . Right.”

Tavia brought down her pointed little chin decisively before turning back to examine Phasma.  One arm-tentacle went to the captain’s forehead and the other to the pulse point under her jaw.

“She’s alive.  A little feverish.  What about— _Iä!_ ” the healer breathed.  She leaned in closer and peered at Phasma’s face.  “You weren’t lying. . . these bruises are bad, and that’s a vicious burn,” Tavia observed as she touched a tentacle-tip, very gently, to the bruise under Phasma’s eye.

“I kn-kn-know.  She wouldn’t let m-m-me touch h-h-her wounds.  Wouldn’t accept any p-p-painkiller either until like an hour ago, and that was when she was d-d-delirious,” mumbled DJ.  “Her left arm and right leg are the b-b-broken ones.”

Tavia muttered, “If she’s burned this badly everywhere, I’m amazed she’s survived this long.”

“She’s t-t-tough.  She’s—yeah,” DJ broke off and glanced away when Tavia looked up at him, all curiosity now.

“Is she your wife?” the octopid asked, far more gently than any other time she’d spoken to him.  DJ nearly had a panic attack.

“N-n-no!   _Fuck_ no!  She’s just—she’s n-n-not even my friend, it’s a long story.  Just—can you d-d-do anything?  Is she g-g-gonna be—be. . . .”

Tavia straightened up and gestured for the sailcloth he still carried.  She said, “I think she’ll recover with treatment, since she’s made it this far.  We need to move her though, so unfold that and gimme one end.  We can slide it under her, then carry her in it.”

With one of them at each end of the fabric, and DJ shifting her around as gently as he could, they managed to get Phasma positioned in the middle of the sailcloth.  Tavia strapped her gun to her back and bundled up the cloth at Phasma’s feet, then gripped it with both arm-tentacles and moved it over her shoulder.

“I’ll lead with this end.  You carry that end, hold on to the cloth like it’s a hammock and you’re a tree.  Just don’t drop her,” Tavia commanded.

“I’m not g-g-gonna drop her!” growled DJ.  “And you m-m-mean to tell me this little b-b-ball of dirt and water actually h-h-has something growing on it?”

Tavia muttered something unpronounceable to his tongue, and they started the long, awkward journey back to her house.  Phasma seemed to be all legs—heavy legs at that—and by the time they reached Tavia’s door, DJ was half afraid they’d made things worse by jostling her so much.  Tavia led him inside to a tiny room with a creaking rope bed taking up most of the floor space.  Once they’d gotten Phasma on the bed, Tavia sat down on its side with her chest heaving for breath.  It was a rather buxom chest, and DJ tried not to watch.

“I’m gonna—whew—gonna try to wake her up now,” the healer panted.  She got up again and went to a rickety wicker cabinet at the foot of the bed to rummage through.

“What’s in th-th-that?” DJ asked when Tavia pulled out a small bottle with something crumbly in it.

“Just smelling salts, calm down.”  DJ doubted something so rudimentary would work, but when Tavia opened the bottle near Phasma’s face, the captain abruptly drew in a sharp breath then coughed until she gagged.

DJ let out his own breath, which he hadn’t realized he was holding.  Before he could say anything, Phasma’s right hand shot up and clamped down on the loop of hair at the side of Tavia’s head.

“Who are you?” Phasma hissed.  Tavia’s eyes went wide, and she made a sort of squeaking noise.  Having not received an immediate response, Phasma yanked the healer’s head down closer to her face and demanded, “Who are you?!  Where’s DJ?”

“H-he’s right there!” Tavia yelped.  Phasma visibly relaxed, but the healer jerked free and looked at DJ in a panic.  “Is that what you meant by ‘delirious’?!”

DJ grinned broadly, mostly from relief, and contradicted, “N-n-nope.  This is normal.”  He went over to Phasma’s bedside and looked down at her.  She stared back up at him, her eyes confused but lucid.

“How do you f-f-feel, Captain?” he asked her.

Phasma didn’t answer for a long moment; then she looked away and muttered, “Tolerable.”  She struggled to sit up on her own using her good arm.  DJ intervened and helped her get propped up against the bed’s lumpy pillows, but after that, Phasma pulled away from his touch.  DJ backed off and shoved his hands in his pockets again.

“You did not answer my question,” Phasma said to Tavia.  “Who are you?”

“My name’s Tavia,” the healer said in a small voice.  Her eyes darted from Phasma to DJ and back again.  “I’m a healer.  Your—uh, DJ here fetched me to help you, and we brought you to my home so I can treat your injuries.”

When Phasma kept her eyes fixed on Tavia, and the octopid looked increasingly nervous, DJ sighed, “She’s the h-h-healer I promised to take you to, Phasma.  We’re in the middle of n-n-nowhere on a planet named M-m-moana, and _that’s_ in the middle of n-n-nowhere itself.  You’re safe.”

“I will decide that for myself,” Phasma retorted, without looking at him.

“At least let me examine you, okay?  I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”  Despite her nervousness, Tavia spoke like she were dealing with a stubborn child.  That didn’t sit well with Phasma either, and she seemed to weigh her options before finally agreeing.

“All right.  I would appreciate a diagnosis of my injuries.”

“Great. . . great,” Tavia stammered.  “Um, DJ, why don’t you go. . . somewhere else until I’m finished?”

DJ was equally annoyed at being dismissed and afraid of leaving Tavia alone with Phasma.  He protested, “I wanna kn-kn-know what’s up too!  I’ll cover my eyes if you—”

“Get out.  _Now_ ,” Phasma ordered in a tone that brooked no dissent.  Yet, still, she would not look at him.

“Fine, I’m g-g-guh, gone,” DJ grumbled.  He stalked out of the room and, when he heard Tavia both close and lock the door, considered stalking right back to the ship.  He ended up sitting in a decrepit cane chair to wait instead.  It sat in the main room of the cottage, which was really _all_ of the cottage except for Phasma’s room and one other closed door which might have led to Tavia’s bedroom.  Tavia had a little stove and a sink in one corner of the room, but DJ didn’t see any conclusive evidence of running water.

 _Looks like I’ll be spending the night on the ship no matter what,_ DJ observed.

After a while, he got up and paced over to the room’s single window, a large one that looked out on the ocean.  Nice view, if you liked the beach.  DJ liked _looking_ at the ocean, but it looked better from the penthouse suites of enormous luxury hotels, at sunset, when he had a virtual stack of money to blow on room service.

He wondered if Phasma had ever been to a place like that.

DJ paced a bit more then sank back down onto the wobbly chair.  He missed the sunset because he fell asleep with the chair tilted back against the wall, and he only woke up when Tavia curled a tentacle around the bottom rung and yanked it so that the chair slammed down on the floor.  DJ squawked and flailed until he regained his balance, if not his dignity.

“So what’s the, the diagnosis?” he asked the healer once he’d caught his breath.  “Will she g-g-get better?”

“Yes,” sniffed Tavia.  She scowled down at him with her arm tentacles folded across her chest before she added, “If she’s allowed time to heal.”

DJ glared back and retorted, “Hey, it’s n-n-not my fault she wouldn’t let me h-h-help her!  She insisted on—”

“She _said_ ,” the healer interrupted, “that she’s your prisoner.”

“She—she is _not_!” DJ exploded.  “I m-m-mean, I guess she _was_ , sorta, but—but it’s d-d-different now!  And I saved her life j-j-just like I said!  Didn’t she tell you _that_?”

Tavia shrugged.  “I dragged it out of her.  She didn’t want to talk about how she got hurt, but I needed to know so I could treat her properly.  So yeah, she said you saved her, but just ‘cos you wanted to hold her for ransom!”

“I, well, yeah—b-b-but I changed m-m-my mind!”

“Only _after_ you found out she was worthless.”

“I didn’t—she’s n-n-not worthless!” DJ snapped.  “That’s ridiculous.  She d-d-doesn’t really think that.”  Tavia just looked at him until he sighed, “Look, she’s n-n-not a prisoner, okay?   She can g-g-go wherever the fuck she wants when she’s well.  I just, just want to kn-kn-know if she’s all right.”

“She’s all right.”  Tavia dropped her arm-tentacles with a sigh of her own.  “I’ve still got to put casts on her, but I think everything’s gonna heal.  Her fever is almost gone, that was from an infection—one of the burns on her broken leg is pretty gross, so that was probably the culprit.  But if she keeps it medicated and bandaged, it shouldn’t make her sick again.”

“Okay.  Thanks,” DJ mumbled; then he leaned forward and looked up at Tavia.  “What am I g-g-gonna owe you?”

Tavia appeared both embarrassed and surprised, and she dismissed the question: “Um, we can discuss that later.  I’ll take care of her, DJ, don’t worry.”  She seemed to think DJ wouldn’t be able to pay, and he wondered if Phasma had left his reward from the First Order out of her story.  He decided to leave it out of his story, too.

“All right.  Can I g-g-go back in now, or do I h-h-hafta wait ‘til you g-g-got the casts on?” he asked.

“She said she doesn’t want to see you,” Tavia told him.  DJ gaped at her.

“She _said_ she d-d-doesn’t wanna see me, or you d-d-decided she doesn’t?”

“I _asked_ if you could come in, and she said it.  Pretty much in those exact words: ‘I do not wish to see him,’” Tavia quoted in a passable imitation of Phasma’s haughty way of speaking.  When DJ exhaled and dropped his head, Tavia added, “I’m sorry, DJ.”

“Oh,” said DJ.  He stood up and stretched until his shoulders popped.  “I’ll g-g-go back to the ship and get some sleep then.”

Tavia nodded and turned towards the sink.  Over her shoulder, she said, “Come back in the morning, and I’ll let you know how she’s doing.”

The sun was long gone by then, and if DJ hadn’t had a flashlight in his coat along with all his other paraphernalia, he wouldn’t have been able to see a thing on the trudge back to the ship.  Walking alone in the dark, he realized just how tired he really was.

Inside, DJ went straight to his cabin, pulled off his clothes, and crashed.  He hadn’t eaten in a long time, but sleep ranked over food, and he didn’t feel hungry anyway.  The bed was quite comfortable, and he fell asleep almost right way, before he could think too much about why Phasma wouldn’t see him.

\--

To be continued


	6. Chapter 6

By the time DJ returned to Tavia’s home the next morning, Moana’s blue sun was already high in the sky.  He hadn’t really meant to sleep that long, but hey, it was a new-to-him bed and it needed breaking in.

_Not that there’s anything else to do around here,_ he thought as he knocked on the healer’s door.

When Tavia let him in, she seemed cheerful enough, and she answered his question before he could ask it: “Phasma’s doing pretty good, all things considered.  She ate breakfast, and her wounds don’t look any worse.”

DJ could still smell the ghost of breakfast, and it smelled fishy.  When Tavia offered to cook something for him, he muttered that he’d eaten on the ship and quickly changed the subject.

“What about the f-f-fever?”

“Her temperature’s normal now.  She’s a quick healer, I’ll give her that.”  Tavia nibbled on a tentacle tip thoughtfully and added, “You were right about her being tough.”

“Yeah,” murmured DJ.  He wanted to ask if Phasma still refused to see him, but he also didn’t want to know the answer.  Tavia regarded him over her tentacle.

“You might try visiting now,” she said after a few seconds.

DJ swallowed hard.  “Yeah?  D-d-did she say so?”

“No-o-o. . . but she asked if your ship was still out there.  Several times.”  She paused.  “Every time I went in to check on her, in fact.  I think maybe she’s feeling insecure.  Seeing you might help.”

“I’ll. . . I’ll g-g-go see if she wants to talk,” DJ murmured.  Tavia nodded, so he went over to Phasma’s door and knocked.

“What is it?” Phasma’s voice called from within.

“It’s m-m-me.  Can I come in?”

DJ held his breath until Phasma replied, “Yes. . . come in.”

DJ slipped in the room and closed the door behind him before he really looked at her.  Phasma appeared to be in better shape than he’d expected.  She was sitting up with her left arm in a cast and sling, and bandages over the wounds on her face, but her color was normal and her eyes clear as she gazed at him.  Tavia had gotten Phasma out of the First Order uniform and put her in something drab and linen, like the healer’s own clothing.  With the bedsheets pulled up to Phasma’s chest, DJ couldn’t see much of it, but he supposed it had to be more comfortable than the uniform.

“H-h-how do you feel?” DJ asked from the safe distance of the door.

Phasma replied, “Better.  Octavia’s methods are effective, if primitive.”

“She said your fever was g-g-gone.”

“Yes.  The pain has lessened as well.”  Phasma frowned and muttered, “The bad news is that she insists I stay in bed today and tomorrow.  Something about making certain the infection is healing, and that I keep off my leg.”

“Heh,” DJ smirked.  “What’s so b-b-bad about g-g-getting some rest?”

Phasma curled her lip in scorn.  “For two whole days?  I feel completely useless.  And restless, I am used to being on my feet for hours at a time.  This is—it’s _boring_.”  DJ’s smirk became an outright grin, and she glowered at him and snapped, “I suppose _you_ would relish the chance to do absolutely nothing.”

“Okay, okay, I’d b-b-be bored too, eventually,” DJ admitted.  “But I kinda agree with T-T-Tavia keeping an eye on you.  And you probably n-n-need the rest anyway.  You’ve b-b-been through a lot.”

“I suppose,” Phasma grumbled.  DJ tried to quit grinning, but it was difficult when he studied her face and decided she was pouting.  It was kind of cute.

Still, she didn’t argue with him further, and after a moment, she demanded, “Are you coming any closer than that?  I would rather not continue shouting across the room.”

“I d-d-dunno,” DJ mused as he folded his arms and leaned against the door.  “ _I’d_ rather n-n-not get yelled at and/or physically d-d-damaged if I g-g-get too close.”  He stared her down until Phasma sighed and her eyes softened.

“DJ. . . come here.”

He grinned all over again and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, opposite Phasma but within arm’s reach of her.  She looked into his eyes and inhaled deeply before announcing, “I wish to apologize to you.”

DJ raised his eyebrows and asked, “Yeah?  For what?”

“For the things I said to you before I got so ill.  Some of them were accurate, but not all.”

Amused, DJ pressed for more details: “Such as?”  Phasma gave him a tired look but answered nevertheless.

“I should not have called you a leech.  Or a fucking piece of shit,” she clarified with a complete lack of intonation.  “You are neither.  I also apologize for intruding upon your privacy.  I did so for the reason I stated, to learn more about you, but. . . I am willing to admit that I went too far.  And calling you names—”  She shook her head with a scowl.  “That was beneath me, and you did not deserve it.”

DJ was stunned, not only because she had apologized but also because she castigated herself so harshly.  _She’s as hard on herself as she is on anyone else,_ he realized.

“Phas, it—okay, I appreciate it,” he replied.  “B-b-but I’m sorry for what I said to you, too.  _You_ didn’t d-d-deserve _that_.  You p-p-pissed me off, b-b-but also, I was worried about you.”

“You worried about me?” Phasma murmured.  She lifted her eyes back to his, and DJ nearly drowned in them.

He mumbled, “Yeah.  I worried a lot.  Thought you m-m-might not make it.”

“And that would have made you—feel unhappy?” she pressed him.  DJ decided she wasn’t being snide; her tone and face expressed only curiosity. . . maybe a little surprise.

“Well yeah. . . it’s n-n-not like I want you to die or something.  I, uh. . . .”  He fumbled for a way to say what he didn’t really understand himself.  “If you were g-g-gone, I’d—I’d miss you, Captain.”

DJ expected a barrage of further questions—whys and hows and what-fors.  But Phasma just bent her head to look down at the counterpane instead of him.

“I thought you would leave, last night,” she said after a pause.

“I d-d-did, I went b-b-back to the ship.”

“I thought you would leave _in_ the ship,” Phasma clarified.  “I thought you would leave me here.  You said you would.”

DJ groaned, “Yeah, with all that other shit I d-d-didn’t mean.  I’m not g-g-gonna leave you, I p-p-promise.”

“I am supposed to trust your promises?”  She kept her head down but lifted her eyes back to him, and even smiled a tiny bit.

Relived, DJ laughed, “N-n-not at all.  You c-c-can’t trust anyone, least of all m-m-me.  But I still won’t leave you.  Like I said—I’d m-m-miss you.”

“I _don’t_ trust anyone.  I believe you and I follow the same policy in that regard, Kitten,” Phasma replied, still with the little smile.  “May I continue to call you that?  I find it amusing.”

DJ decided he could live with the nickname, maybe even like it, as long as it was coming from her.

“I suppose,” he agreed.  “Hey, uh, if you w-w-want, I could stay and k-k-keep you company.  You know, k-k-keep you from gettin’ bored.”  Phasma’s eyes held his for a few seconds longer, but then she glanced away.

“No.  It is considerate of you, but unnecessary.  Octavia will probably be in soon to examine the infected burn, anyway.”

“All right, sure,” DJ mumbled.  “You need anything f-f-from the ship when I come back next?  Food, m-m-maybe?  If what I smelled coming in the house was your breakfast, I’m sorry.”

“It was, and it was sufficient,” Phasma informed him.  “I do not need anything.”

“‘Sufficient’?  That m-m-mean you _like_ eating fish in the morning?”  DJ fixed her with a stare until he saw her nose wrinkle the tiniest bit; then he chuckled.

Phasma admitted, “I do not prefer it.  But it is nutritious and beneficial to the healing process, so I will eat it.”

“Have it your way,” DJ said as he stood up to go.  He almost made it to the door before her voice stopped him.

“DJ?”

“Yeah.”  He looked back at her.

“You may return this afternoon.  If you would like,” Phasma said.

DJ grinned and replied, “I’ll think about it.”

\--

After he was gone, she tried to make sense of him.  Why had he stayed, when he stood to gain nothing from her?  Even though she tried to keep him at a distance, Phasma really wanted DJ there beside her, and she hated that weakness.

Tavia did come in to check on the worst of Phasma’s injuries and to offer lunch, which Phasma declined.  The healer also brought her a printed book.  Although it was written in the native script and language of Moana, Tavia thought it might give Phasma something to do.

“It has pictures,” Tavia suggested meekly.  She still seemed to be a nervous about incurring Phasma’s anger.  At first, Phasma had found that pathetic—why should the girl care if Phasma were angry?  All Phasma could really do was yell at her, and since she was dependent upon the healer’s care, Phasma would be unwise to do so no matter how she felt.

But now, as Tavia laid the book on the bed beside her and slipped out, Phasma realized that she was trying to be compassionate.  Perhaps sensitivity related to compassion somehow.

_I am not at all compassionate, therefore I am not sensitive,_ Phasma reasoned.  She picked up the heavy book and laid it upon her lap.  _And DJ is neither compassionate nor sensitive, so he does not care when I am angry.  But Octavia is both, and she does._

She trailed her fingertips over the book’s foil-embossed leather cover, decorated in silhouettes of strange sea creatures.  Although she tried to focus her attention on them, Phasma kept thinking about DJ instead.  He was not sensitive, and yet. . . . 

_He said he would miss me.  When we part, we will likely never meet again, and he will. . . miss me._              

Phasma opened the book and stared at its pages until she could put him from her mind.

\--

DJ did return that afternoon, after all.  When she heard his knock, heavier than Tavia’s, Phasma was still perusing the book.  The “pictures” had captured her attention after all, but she put the book aside and called for DJ to come in.

“Hi,” he said.  He shut the door and came to sit near her without hesitation this time.  “You still d-d-doin’ okay?”  When she nodded, he produced a meal replacement bar from some hidden pocket of his coat and tossed it on her small bedside table.

“I know you said you d-d-didn’t want anything, but just in case,” DJ explained.

Phasma murmured, “Thank you.”

“You look like you’re f-f-feeling better,” he announced after studying her face for a moment.

“I am.  The burns do not bother me so much when they’ve been medicated.  And my leg is not jostled now with the cast, so the pain is less,” she told him.  “The unfortunate part is that Octavia insists I must keep the casts on for quite some time.  But she has provided me with the crutches there in the corner, so I will not have to lean on you when she lets me out of bed.”

“Hey, I n-n-never said I minded being leaned on,” chuckled DJ.  Phasma did not know whether to believe him or not.  After all, assisting her must have been a burden on him.  She decided to ignore the comment and move on.

“Octavia has also told me that even after the burns and other injuries heal, I will be heavily scarred,” Phasma said as she touched one side of her bandaged face.  “Here, and elsewhere.”

DJ stayed quiet for several seconds then asked, “How do you f-f-feel about that?”

Phasma responded sharply, “What is there to feel?  My appearance is of no consequence to me.  All that matters is that I regain my mobility and the strength I lose while recuperating.”

“Well, you m-m-must feel some way about it, or you wouldn’t’ve b-b-brought it up.”

“I was making conversation,” she snapped.  “It is not something I’m used to doing.”  Her defensiveness surprised her, but then he always managed to say something that put her on edge.  And now he was just _watching_ her, as if he expected her to say more.  Or as if he were judging how she would look when the bandages were removed.

Finally, DJ said, “I d-d-don’t think they’ll be so b-b-bad.  At least, scars don’t bother m-m-me.  With this face, I’d be a h-h-hypocrite if they did.”  He laughed, making the lines in his face deepen.

“But your face is not unattractive,” Phasma pointed out.  When she thought of the unlined faces of the young men she had served under, she remembered their inexperience, what even amounted to naivete despite the things they’d seen.  Their faces were not creased because they had not worked and fought like she or her stormtroopers had.  Their pride manifested itself as cold arrogance, not playful cockiness like DJ’s, and for the first time, she felt fortunate to be free of them.

DJ put his hand up to his scruffy, unshaven chin and rubbed it.

“‘Not unattractive’?” he mused.  “If I d-d-didn’t know better, I’d say you were complimenting me, Captain.”

“Perhaps,” she admitted.  “But my point is that you have what I believe is called ‘character’—and only small scars, not disfiguring ones.”

DJ dropped both his hand and the smirk he was wearing as he mumbled, “D-d-don’t talk like that.  You’re still pretty, Phas.  Nothing’s g-g-gonna change that, far as I’m concerned.”

Phasma reminded him, “As I just said, being ‘pretty’ is not a worry of mine,” but her assertion lacked force even to her own ears.  She had not brought up her scarring to seek his reassurance.  Nevertheless, she enjoyed receiving it, and that fact _did_ worry her.

_I am allowing him too much influence over me,_ she scolded herself.  _Any effect he has upon my emotions gives him a weakness to exploit.  Any dependence upon him will weaken me further when we go our separate ways._

DJ had turned away from her by then, and he began to flip through Tavia’s book.  He frowned at the script.

“Can you read this?”

“No.  Octavia thought I might enjoy looking at the ‘pictures,’” Phasma explained wryly.  “In fact, they are illuminations, so I believe it is a religious text of her people.”

DJ pored over one of the pages.  Phasma amused herself by watching the bewildered expression his face took on.

“Religious, you sure?  Looks like a seafood m-m-menu.”  He pointed at one of the illustrations on the page’s margin.  “See, that thing looks d-d-delicious.”

“It also looks like it is one of their gods, considering that group of octopids worshipping it,” observed Phasma.  “If Octavia follows this religion, you should take care that you don’t mention eating her god in front of her.”

DJ smirked, then glanced over at her.  “That reminds me, d-d-did she tell you about the cult?”

“The what?”

“The oyster cult.”

“The _what?_ ”

When he managed to quit laughing, DJ said, “That’s about all I kn-kn-know.  Some ultra-religious g-g-group with a temple underwater next door.  Tavia said she g-g-goes over there when one of ‘em gets sick, and she wants me to c-c-come with her tomorrow.”

Suspicion took hold of Phasma immediately, and she demanded “Why?”  He either didn’t notice or ignored the sharp tone of her voice.

“She wants h-h-help carrying her medical gear over there, said she doesn’t need m-m-money but I can pay her back by helping out.”  He shrugged.  “I’d rather pay out than d-d-do work, but it could be profitable.  From what I understand, those g-g-guys are loaded with pearls and nacre and valuable shit like that.”

“I do not like that idea,” Phasma muttered.

“What, you d-d-don’t like pearls?  I won’t bring you any, then.”

She glared and retorted, “Not that, I mean I do not like the idea of you interacting with the cult, or assisting the healer, for that matter.”

“What?  Why?”  DJ’s brow furrowed more than usual.  “I’m n-n-not in any danger of getting brainwashed into worshiping an oyster if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Cults can be treacherous.  You do not know how many members there are, I presume?”  When DJ shook his head reluctantly, Phasma continued, “Your life could be endangered, rather than your mind.  And I find it suspicious that Octavia would refuse payment in favor of your time.”

“You’re not j-j-jealous, are you, Captain?” DJ suggested with a smirk, and Phasma snarled at him.

“Don’t flatter yourself!  If I am jealous of anything, it’s the fact that _you_ can walk while I remain confined in bed!  Go ahead and endanger yourself if you wish, but you will not do so using _my_ debt as an excuse.  I will pay the healer myself.”

DJ had quit smirking, and now he returned her glare.  “Yeah?  With what?  You don’t h-h-have anything!  N-n-nothing but me!”

Phasma could hardly speak through her anger, but she forced the words out: “I will not be indebted to you.”

“And I won’t f-f-follow your orders!” DJ snapped.  “You h-h-hate not being in control, but that’s _your_ problem, n-n-not mine.”

They sat there glowering at each other, and neither of them moved.  DJ was right about Phasma and wanting to be in control, but she could not explain to him _why:_ that if she could not control a situation, she might be controlled _by_ it.  The last time that happened, she nearly died.

And if Phasma owed DJ anything or felt anything for him, _he_ might control her.

The cold, logical part of her insisted she should drive him away, not only out of the room but off of the planet.  _Tell him to leave you.  Refuse to see him again if he will not go.  Get rid of him before you begin to care for him._

The other part of her, which had very rarely made its presence known before now, insisted it was already too late.

She broke their silence with an attempt at compromising: “Do what you will, but take care.  You claim not to trust anyone, so don’t.  Not even Octavia.”

“Sure.  And if I g-g-get eaten by a giant oyster or something, you have every right to say, ‘I told you so,’” DJ replied.  Although he did not smile, she thought his ridiculous comment meant he was not angry.

But then, he got up and left her room without saying goodbye or even looking back at her.  The silly, illogical part of her urged Phasma to call him back, but she successfully ignored it.

\--

To be continued


	7. Chapter 7

DJ decided not to see Phasma the next morning before he and Tavia set out; he didn’t want to bicker with her and have that on his mind all day.  He waited outside with two bags of medical equipment while Tavia made sure Phasma had everything she needed.  When the healer finally emerged from her cottage, they set off for the cult’s location, about a kilometer to the east along the shoreline.

“So what exactly are you—haa—you g-g-gonna do over there?” DJ wheezed as they went.  He wasn’t used to walking in sand, and his calves ached already.  In addition, Tavia had bestowed the heavier of the two bags upon him.

“One of the boys has been ill for a while now,” Tavia said over her shoulder.  “I need to check in on him, and usually there’s an injury or something to deal with.  They aren’t great about making contact with the outside world, so they don’t always send word when someone’s hurt.”

DJ noted that she was walking in front of him and having no difficulty at all.  _But she’s got the lighter bag **and** three times as many legs,_ he thought grumpily.

He asked aloud, “The b-b-boys?”

“Er, the cult members.  The rest of us tend to call them the ‘oyster boys’ because. . . well, they’re all male, and you’ll see about the oysters,” explained Tavia.

“Oh yeah, about these oysters.  I g-g-guess the, uh, boys aren’t big on eating them?”

“Great Dagon, no!”  Tavia sounded horrified.  “The penalty for deliberately injuring one of their oysters is death.  If you ingested one— _Iä!_ ”

“Damn,” DJ breathed.

Tavia admitted, “They do trade oyster byproducts, usually with merchants in Innsmouth—that’s our spaceport.  But only dead oysters may be harvested.  I dunno what they do with the meat, but they certainly don’t _eat_ it.”

Despite his initial question, DJ was more interested in the “byproducts” than the edible bits.  He plotted, _If I can get my hands on some of that, we could make a fortune selling it off-world._

To his relief, the sand soon gave over to rocks, and the going got a little easier.  After a few more minutes of walking, Tavia stopped him and pointed ahead with a tentacle.

“There, that’s where their oyster beds start.  They’ve kept paths between the beds, so just make sure you only walk on those.”

As he followed gingerly, DJ asked, “So if their temple’s underwater, where exactly are we g-g-going?  Do you swim d-d-down there or something?”

“Ha, hardly ever,” Tavia chuckled.  “I did once when one guy had a bad injury, but I’ve gotten spoiled by surface-dwelling.  It’s a lot easier to treat patients on land than underwater.  Plus all the cult members are decapids, and they’re not as adapted to living on land as we are.”

As they passed through the oyster beds, DJ grimaced at the metallic odor which cut through the salty smell of the ocean.  Oyster shells filled every space between the elevated, rocky pathways.  The shells were anchored upright, with newer shells latched onto older ones so that layers of sun-bleached shells stood open to the sky.

Eventually, they reached an end to the beds.  DJ thought at first that they ended at a natural expanse of flat rocks, but as he came closer, he realized the rocks were actually stone tiles.  The cult had built an elaborately mosaiced platform, and Tavia explained that it lay parallel to the underwater temple.

“Sometimes they have ceremonies or rituals on land,” she said as she dropped her bag and stretched her tentacles.  “Also, it marks the location of the temple for anyone approaching by land.  Like us.”

DJ set down his luggage with relief as well and reached over his shoulder to squeeze his tense muscles.

“So d-d-do we get a welcoming committee, or what?  How do you let ‘em know you’re h-h-here?”

Rather ominously, Tavia proclaimed, “They know.  They watch this area very closely.  Someone will be here soon.”

While they waited, DJ wandered over to investigate what looked like some sort of altar near the edge of the platform farthest from the ocean.  It only came up to his waist and was long and wide enough for a being of humanoid size to lie down upon.  That was kind of ominous too.  He suddenly remembered Phasma’s suspicions and winced.

_What if they really do feed me to the oysters?  Or maybe oysters don’t eat and they’ll just sacrifice me to whatever the hell they worship.  Phasma would just love that, she’d gloat for days._

“DJ!  Quit goofing off and c’mere!”  He was so deep in thought, he jumped when Tavia screeched at him.  When he turned around, DJ saw another tentacled person approaching from the ocean, dripping wet.  DJ guessed he was male since all the cult members were, but as he wore a tunic shorter than Tavia’s skirt and quite a lot of gold jewelry, DJ couldn’t be certain.

The decapid—whose arm-tentacles split into two below each shoulder—spoke urgently to Tavia in the same unpronounceable language she used.  _Probably also the same language as Phasma’s book,_ DJ thought.  The decapid finished by pointing at DJ emphatically.

Tavia answered the decapid in a soothing voice; then she turned to DJ and explained, “This is the high priest of the cult.  He wanted to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”

“Uh, and what d-d-did you tell him?”

“That you are an off-worlder repaying a debt by assisting her.”  That from the priest, who spoke clearly enough.  He smiled almost shyly.  “That is acceptable, as Octavia has vouched for you.  Otherwise, I am suspicious of off-worlders, but I trust her.”

“R-r-right,” DJ muttered.

“My name is Fhtagn,” the priest said.  His name, clearly from his native language, sounded like someone sneezing.

“I’m, um, DJ.”

“Octavia tells me your partner is injured and you needed a healer’s assistance?”

“She’s, she’s n-n-not. . . .”  DJ trailed off and decided “partner” was as good a term as any for Phasma, and he nodded.

“I hope she improves soon,” the priest said politely.  DJ nodded again.  Tavia spoke to Fhtagn in their own language once more; then he retreated to the ocean and dove right in.

“He’s going to get the ones who need to see me,” Tavia explained.  “There’s the sick guy I told you about, and a couple others with minor injuries.”

“So, uh, you’re n-n-not gonna need me for a while, hunh?”

Tavia jabbed him in the chest with a tentacle and scolded, “Don’t think you’re getting off easy.  You’re gonna assist me—you owe me that much for saving your girlfriend!”

“She’s n-n-not my girlfriend!” snapped DJ.  “You say that around h-h-her, she’ll tie your tentacles in kn-kn-knots!”

“She is _so_ your girlfriend,” Tavia muttered as she crouched to start pulling supplies out of the bags.  DJ scowled and went back to examining the altar.

He ended up studying it throughout the day, in between doing grunt work for Tavia.  The worst of those tasks involved holding up a decapid who had been “on the surface” so rarely, he couldn’t stand up on his own.  In fact, he had pulled. . . something the last time he tried to walk.  As Tavia poked at the ligaments connecting his tentacles to his upper thighs, the wet decapid squawked and squirmed, making him even harder to support.

All the decapids looked a lot like Fhtagn: blue-green skin, sparse hair, elongated skulls, wide eyes with huge round pupils, instead of Tavia’s horizontal ones.  They had gills on the sides of their slender necks but could breathe air as well, and they all chattered to Tavia in their native tongue.

Tavia finally finished with the squirmy one, having bound both thighs and some tentacle bases in tight bandages, and DJ could let go.  The decapid collapsed on the ground with a “squish” sound, then propelled himself into the ocean with his tentacles.  DJ watched him go as he wrung out his shirttails.

“Uh, so did you f-f-fix what was wrong with him?” he muttered.  “I h-h-hope so.  Wouldn’t want to have g-g-gotten drenched for nothing.”

“It’s nothing something I can just _fix_.  Medicine isn’t like that,” sniffed the healer.  “The bandages will give some support to his sprain while it heals.  But I also told him that if he wants to walk on land, he’ll have to work on strengthening his lower tentacles.  It’s something no one can do for him, and it will be a slow process.  I don’t know if he’ll follow through or not.  He has to decide if it’s worth it to him.”

_A slow process that no one can do for him,_ DJ thought.  He’d never liked slow processes: he didn’t have patience for a long con, or slicing without an immediate payoff.  As Tavia would have put it, they weren’t worth it to him.  Not much was.

He went back to the altar for a last look while Tavia packed up.  What had caught DJ’s attention were decorative carvings on all four sides; those looked very much like the illuminations in Phasma’s book. In fact, one of the shorter sides appeared devoted to the tasty-looking god, complete with worshippers.  Now that he could see it on a larger scale, DJ realized that only some of the congregation were octopids; the others were decapids like the cult members.

However, the front of the altar was the most elaborate.  It bore a long string of text in the unreadable script, and below that, an intricate carving spread over the entire surface.  A single oyster, enormous in scale, sat in the middle with what were clearly cult members surrounding it.  DJ squatted in front of the altar and ran a finger over the pearl in between the oyster’s parted shells.  It was a _real_ pearl, inset within the stone.

“Is this the g-g-god they worship?” DJ asked Tavia over his shoulder.

“Hmm?  Oh. . . godd _ess_.  But yeah, that’s Ysthli.”  Tavia came up behind him and pointed with the tip of a lower tentacle toward one of the cult members depicted behind the oyster.  “And that’s the high priest—not Fhtagn since this thing is ancient, but he’s got the same tiara with Ysthli’s insignia on it.”

DJ observed, “Looks like a f-f-fish hook.  That’s n-n-not insulting or anything?”

“It isn’t a fish hook, DJ,” sighed Tavia.  “Anyway, Ysthli’s considered to be benevolent, and they’re very devoted to her.  They consider every oyster to be a little part of her, which is why they don’t allow any harm to come to them.”  She moved around behind the altar and asked, “Have you looked at this side?”

“Yeah.”  He winced as he stood and his knees popped.  “Big b-b-black thing.”

“It’s a slice of obsidian.  It represents the cult’s treasure, Ysthli’s Mirror.”

“T-t-treasure?”  DJ hurried around the altar to join her.  The flat, circular piece of obsidian was so shiny, it did reflect a dim outline of Tavia’s lower tentacles, and the carving around it mimicked a frame.  “Is it actually a m-m-mirror, the treasure?”

“Unh hunh, a black one,” she replied.  “Looks just like this only bigger, and the frame is made of gold.  And no one really knows what the mirror itself is made of—it’s not obsidian like this.  The cult claims Ysthli crafted it from her own nacre.”

“Yeah?  What can you see in a black m-m-mirror?”

“The cult believes it’s not actually a mirror but a portal leading to Ysthli herself.  But then there’s off-world legends that it really is a mirror, and it doesn’t have anything to do with Ysthli at all.  They say it reflects only illusions and not reality, so they call it the Magna of Illusion.”  Tavia shrugged.  “I don’t know either way.  I’ve never seen the mirror—it’s down in their temple, and only cult members are allowed in there.”

DJ believed in neither portals to omnipotent oysters nor mirrors that showed lies.  He did, however, believe in the power of legends to drive up the value of an object.  If the actual mirror was as elaborate as the carving, its resale value would be high.  If it really had such lore attached to it, the value would be astronomical.

Not wanting to show too much interest in the mirror in case Tavia got suspicious, DJ asked, “So, uh.  Are we d-d-done here?  It’s g-g-getting kinda late. . . .”

“Almost.  I do want to get paid for my work,” Tavia replied.  DJ raised an eyebrow, and she added, “Fhtagn is bringing the payment up from the temple—they usually pay me in pearls.”

“Heh, well.  D-d-doesn’t sound too bad.”

Tavia wrinkled her nose and said, “I’d really rather have cash.  But I can sell them in Innsmouth next time I go for supplies.”  A moment later, the priest came sloshing out of the ocean again, carrying a little wooden trunk in his tentacles.  When Tavia went forward to meet him, DJ followed to see just what sort of pearls they were talking.

Fhtagn set down the trunk and opened it to produce a small drawstring bag, which he passed to Tavia.  DJ hardly noticed that; his eyes were fixed on the trunk’s other contents.

Fhtagn glanced at him with a little smile, which still looked shy, and said, “The others told me you did a lot to assist Octavia, so we decided you deserved to be paid something as well.  You may choose.”

“Well, uh. . . thanks,” DJ said, surprised.  He wasn’t sure what Tavia thought of that, but he didn’t stop to ask before he bent down to examine the pearls and mother-of-pearl Fhtagn had brought.  He could sell the pearls like Tavia mentioned, or trade them. . . the cult had even already strung some of them into a necklace.

That got DJ thinking about Phasma instead of himself.  Would she wear a necklace?  Probably not.  In fact, she’d probably berate him for bringing her something with no practical purpose.  The mother of pearl items were all carved or shaped, some into jewelry.  He was about to pass on all of that, too, but then he dug in with his fingers and pulled out a shell comb.

_She can’t say it doesn’t have a purpose,_ he thought, _even if she won’t wear it and just. . . combs with it._ And if Phasma would actually wear it, the shining, iridescent mother of pearl would look nice in her blond hair. . . .

“I’ll, I’ll take this,” DJ muttered as he stood up, clutching the comb.

“Oh—very well.  I hope you enjoy it,” Fhtagn told him politely.  While the priest bid Tavia farewell, DJ shrugged into his coat and tucked the comb into an inner pocket.

Once Fhtagn had returned to the sea, Tavia ordered DJ to carry one of her bags, and they set out for home.  The doctoring had taken nearly all day, and Moana’s sun was setting by the time they passed the oyster beds and neared the sandy part of the beach.

After a long silence, Tavia glanced over at DJ and said, “That comb’s gonna look pretty on you.”

DJ rolled his eyes and retorted, “It’s not for m-m-me,” before realizing she probably knew that full well.

Sure enough, the healer had a smirk when she amended, “Well, it’s gonna look pretty on your girlfriend then.”  This time, he didn’t even bother to correct her.

\--

To be continued


	8. Chapter 8

DJ did not visit Phasma before he and Tavia set out for the cult.  She knew he was outside because she heard Tavia answering the door when he knocked.  But he did not come in, and since Tavia didn’t bring him up, neither did Phasma.

Phasma took stock of her situation once Tavia had gone.  The healer had left her breakfast on a tray; Phasma eyed it a moment before reaching past it for the meal bar from DJ’s ship.  After inhaling that, she shifted to the edge of the bed and leaned forward until she could grab one of the crutches Tavia had found for her.  It appeared to be carved from driftwood, and when Phasma stood up on her good leg and fitted it under her arm, the crutch felt rough and rather uncomfortable.  But then, Phasma wasn’t used to being comfortable anyway.

She propelled herself forward and around the bed to test her balance—a little wobbly, but not bad.  According to Tavia, Phasma should still be in bed, but Phasma had different plans.

_I will not remain dependent upon anyone else,_ she vowed as she crutched her way out into the main room of the cottage.  _Not Octavia, and certainly not him!_

She spent the entire day on her foot: circling the open room until it got easy, then going outside and battling the sand.  The muscles in her working leg began to burn, and she got winded far sooner than she expected.

“Dammit!” Phasma hissed as she stopped yet again to catch her breath, halfway between DJ’s ship and the house.  She wondered, _How did I become so weak, so quickly?_   She had walked at least a couple dozen kilometers a day patrolling the _Supremacy_ , and now she could barely hobble for one.  The sand was a factor, of course, but still.

_This is pathetic—I was only sick for a short time,_ Phasma scolded herself as she squinted out at the sun-bright ocean.  Her good arm ached from the crutch, as did the muscles in her unbroken leg.  She evaluated the cramp in her right upper thigh from holding the broken leg above the sand, her lungs’ continual demand for more oxygen, the scratchy burning of her skin where the coarse fabric of her dress rubbed against it.

_Oh yes, **and** I’m wearing a dress.  This could not get any worse._   Phasma looked down at the garment hanging shapeless from her body.  It seemed to belong to Tavia given that the chest was far too loose on Phasma, and the hem was far too short.  That hit Phasma mid-thigh, and when the wind blew, her exposed leg and its burns got blasted with sand.  But the male officer’s uniform also fit her poorly, and took far too long to put on and take off.

Phasma drew in a breath and started propelling herself through the sand again, back toward Tavia’s house.  Three paces later, her right foot snagged in the sand, and she lost her balance then crashed to the ground.  She swore through a mouthful of sand and pushed herself up into a sitting position with her good arm.

_And DJ is not here to help me up this time,_ she thought before she could stop herself.  . . . Good.  It was good he was not there, because he would think she was weak.  He would probably even find it funny.  Phasma gritted her teeth, reached for her dropped crutch, and began the laborious process of getting herself up again.

She did not return to the house until Moana’s blue sun had nearly reached the horizon, as she didn’t want to be caught outside with no light.  As she hobbled inside, Phasma realized that Tavia and DJ still hadn’t returned, late as it was.

“He probably _did_ get eaten by an oyster,” she muttered on her way over to the sink.  Phasma managed to pump some water with one hand, and she splashed away some of the sand and sweat her face had accumulated.  Her hair felt stiff and sandy as well, but she was too tired to deal with it at the moment.

Phasma began drying her face on a hand towel not much softer than her dress, then paused when she heard a noise outside.  Before she became too concerned, she recognized the sound of two familiar voices.  She quickly finished drying off and hung up the towel while trying to ignore how relieved she felt.

When the door banged open and Tavia came in with DJ trudging after her, Phasma observed, “So you finally made it back.”

“Phas!  You’re up!” DJ exclaimed as he dropped the bag of Tavia’s equipment he was carrying.  His face had lit up, and Phasma wondered if anyone else had ever been that glad to see her.

Tavia scolded, “And you shouldn’t be.  I told you to stay off your feet.”

Phasma chose to ignore that and instead asked, “Did you have a productive day?”

“Not bad,” the healer shrugged; then she gestured at DJ and added, “He was marginally helpful.”

“D-d-don’t listen to her, I think I did damn well,” declared DJ.  “She made me h-h-hold all the slippery ones.”

Phasma was not certain what “the slippery ones” were, nor did she care to ask.  Still, as she propelled herself toward her room on the crutch, she paused near him and said, “Come tell me about it.”  DJ looked startled but followed close behind her.

“You really wanna know what I d-d-did today?” he asked once Phasma had shut her door and hobbled over to sit on the bed.  She tried to hide the relief she felt once she was off her foot.

“I am curious, yes.  You were gone so long.”

DJ grinned and sat down beside her.  “D-d-don’t tell me you actually m-m-missed me, Captain.”

“It was very quiet without you here,” Phasma replied.

“So you _did_ m-m-miss me.”  Before she could demur, DJ launched into a lengthy explanation of what Tavia had done and how he had helped—lengthy because he described in great detail all the jewelry and accessories adorning the cult members.

Phasma finally interrupted him to ask, “Did you steal any of it?”

“N-n-no!” DJ sputtered with righteous indignation.  “They were _p-p-patients_ , Phasma.  M-m-medicine is a noble—”

“DJ.”

“I swear, I d-d-didn’t steal anything.”  He eyed her then asked, “What’s it to you, anyway?  N-n-not like you aren’t used to stealing shit.  In an official capacity, of course.”

Phasma retorted, “I do not wish to have an angry cult come here looking for you in the middle of the night.  But I will trust that you’re telling me the truth.”

“Of course.  Would I lie to you?”

“Yes, you would.”  Phasma smiled in spite of herself at his exaggeratedly offended expression.  After a moment, DJ chuckled and shrugged.

“M-m-maybe.  But what were _you_ up to all d-d-day?”  When Phasma told him (leaving out her weakness and fall), he frowned and said, “That’s g-g-great and all, but m-m-maybe you’re trying to take on too m-m-much too soon.  N-n-not that you should stay in bed like Tavia wants, but she has a p-p-point about you n-n-needing your rest.”

“You believe I am not capable of getting around on my own?” Phasma snapped, mostly from shame that he might be correct.  _If he knew how often I had to rest, or that I fell—_

But DJ shook his head and tried to explain, “It’s n-n-not that.  I j-j-just—just don’t want you to h-h-hurt yourself.”

“I know my limitations,” Phasma informed him.  “I do not wish to remain dependent upon Octavia or upon you any longer than I must.  And that reminds me—I want to return to the ship tomorrow.”

“What for?  If you n-n-need something, I can bring it to you.”

Phasma growled, “Did you not listen to what I _just_ said?  I am returning to remain there so that I will not _need_ you to fetch things, nor burden Octavia with my care.”

“Hey now, we’re n-n-not leaving this p-p-planet yet, so get that out of your h-h-head,” DJ growled right back at her.  “N-n-not until I’m convinced you don’t n-n-need any more d-d-doctoring.  And I’ve got some b-b-business to look into b-b-before we go, too.”

_So I finally get the truth,_ Phasma thought.  _He may not have stolen anything yet, but he has found something to steal, or someone to cheat.  That is why he wants to stay longer, not because he is concerned about me.  Perhaps that is even why he expressed worries about me injuring myself—he still intends to sell me off, and I must be in good condition for whomever has agreed to pay. . . ._

Her jaw clenched, but at the same time, she felt the rare, hard ache in her eyes that came from the threat of tears.  She turned her head to the side and willed the ache to vanish.  She did not cry, not ever, and she would not cry now.  Certainly not because of DJ, and certainly not in front of him.

“Phas?”  She did not reply, on the chance that her voice would tremble.

“Phasma, look at m-m-me,” DJ insisted.  He put his hand to the side of her face turned away from him, over the bandages, and tugged.  The burn there hurt a little from the pressure of his hand, but she acquiesced and looked at him.

“What.”

“You wanna g-g-go that bad?  Is that what’s wrong?”  His hand with its gaudy rings eased off her bandaged cheek only to cup her face behind it.

Phasma retorted, “Nothing is wrong.  You have everything figured out, correct?  How could anything be wrong?”  DJ’s wrinkled brow furrowed further as he dropped his hand.

“What’re you t-t-talking about?”

“What are _you_ planning?  Why are you so determined that we stay here?” she demanded.

“I just t-t-told you, I don’t want you to h-h-hurt yourself.”

“What about your _business_?  You found something today that you want, didn’t you?  And you want to keep me here until you get it!” Phasma spat.  When DJ stared at her with a look half afraid and half guilty, she knew she had it right.

“I—well, yeah, the cult, it—I m-m-mean, they g-g-got a, you know, sacred objects and shit, and—”

Phasma looked away and muttered, “And you just can’t stand the thought of leaving it behind, can you?  How do I fit in to your plans, are they short on sacrificial victims and willing to trade?  But their sacrifices must be in healthy condition.  I am not good enough yet.”

DJ stood up and stalked a few paces away, then spun around to yell at her, “What the _fuck_ , Phasma.  Is _that_ what you think, that I’d d-d-do something like that?”

“That is why you saved me in the first place.  To sell me,” she reminded him.

“That was d-d-different!”

“How?  _How_ was it different?”

DJ cried, “I d-d-didn’t know you then!  I d-d-didn’t c-c-care about you.  I wish I d-d-didn’t n-n-now, it’d be f-f-fuckin’ easier to leave you h-h-here than to f-f-fight with you every f-f-fuckin’ t-t-time I s-s-s-s-see, see you!”

“Then why don’t you!  Why don’t you _go_?”

“B-b-because, I, I, I—”  DJ stopped trying to speak and stood with his back to her, breathing deeply.  Phasma waited with her head down until he tried again.  “B-b-because I want you around.  I want you to stay with m-m-me.”

Phasma lifted her head and looked at DJ’s back.  He raked his hand through his rumpled hair then stood with his shoulders slumped, swathed in his coat.

After another minute, DJ mumbled, “I can’t ask you to t-t-trust me or b-b-believe me, b-b-but m-m-maybe think about it logically.  I like m-m-money ‘cos I like spending it.  D-d-don’t keep it around long.  And I t-t-toss everything I d-d-don’t need, even if it was useful to m-m-me once.”

Phasma waited, and when he didn’t continue, she said, “I do not understand.”  Her voice felt and sounded husky.  DJ shrugged his shoulders and let them drop again.

“If I d-d-didn’t need you, I’d already be g-g-gone.”

Phasma’s instinct for self-preservation rang like an alarm bell, but she remembered how his face looked when he came in and saw her waiting for him.  She wanted to believe in that.

“DJ. . . I am sorry for doubting you,” she murmured hoarsely.  “I do not trust easily.  Or at all.”

“I’ve n-n-noticed,” he replied, but he did turn around to look at her again as he added, “But then, n-n-neither do I.”

“I. . . I will stay with you,” Phasma whispered.  She could hardly make herself admit that, much less voice her innermost thoughts: _I need you too._

DJ took a couple steps back toward her, then sat down on the edge of the bed again.  He licked his lips, which looked dry and wind-burned, before asking, “You will?  You p-p-promise?”  He twitched his mouth up in a smile, but his eyes pleaded with her.

“I promise,” said Phasma with a matching little smile.  “As long as that bodyguard position is still open when my leg and arm are better.  I will not sit around being useless.”

DJ’s face relaxed, and his smile grew.  “I’m always g-g-gonna need someone to c-c-cover my ass.  Think you can h-h-handle that, Captain?”

“It will be a difficult assignment, but I shall excel at it,” she announced.

DJ laughed, “I’m sure you will.  Oh—almost f-f-forgot, I brought you something.”  He pushed his coat off then started digging around in the pockets.  Before Phasma could say anything, he added, “And I _didn’t_ steal it.”

“Oh?  You mean you bought it?” asked Phasma with an arched eyebrow.

“Nope, g-g-got a bonus for h-h-helping Tavia.”  DJ finally produced the item and held out to her an intricate comb carved from mother of pearl.  He explained, “It’s a c-c-comb.”

“I can see that.”  Phasma took it from him and studied it.  “It is quite attractive, but I never wear any ornaments.”

DJ rolled his eyes and said, “C-c-comb with it, then.  Your h-h-hair could use it right n-n-now.”

“ _Your_ hair looks like a bird’s nest,” Phasma sniffed, but then she combed her forelock of blond hair back into its usual place from where it had fallen over her forehead.  “All right, thank you for the gift.  It is functional.”

“Your hair n-n-needs more work than that,” charged DJ, so Phasma dropped the comb in his lap.

“If you are such an expert on hairstyles, _you_ do it,” she told him.  She regretted the attempt at sarcasm when DJ picked up the comb and declared, “F-f-fine!”

Before Phasma could protest, he had the comb in her hair and his free hand back on her face, holding her head still.  Phasma shut her eyes tightly and decided to endure it.  DJ _had_ been generous to give his prize to her, and the comb _did_ feel nice sliding through her stiff hair. . . something about the way the blunt teeth massaged her scalp, and the way his hand cradled her head when she leaned into his touch.

DJ combed out the hair at the sides of Phasma’s hair, then reaching for the back, he pressed closer to her and put his arm over her shoulder.  She stiffened and held her breath as the comb ran through her hair.  When nothing else happened, Phasma relaxed slightly.  As she began to breathe again, she noticed DJ smelled like salt and sweat and the ocean.  Absurdly, she wondered if his skin would taste salty, too.

“H-h-how d’you like it?” he murmured, practically right in her ear.

“Like what?”

“The c-c-comb.”  She felt it trailing through her hair again, slowly.

“It is nice, thank you,” mumbled Phasma.  DJ pressed his cheek against her hair, and she tensed again.

“There’s a lot m-m-more where it came from,” DJ told her.  His lips actually brushed her ear then, and she shivered involuntarily.  “I wish you c-c-could’ve come with us today.  Cult had an altar there on the b-b-beach, covered in the same shit that’s in your b-b-book.  C-c-carvings, all elaborate like on the c-c-comb.  And a b-b-black mirror, that’s one of their sacred objects, T-t-tavia said.  I wanted you to see it.”

“A black mirror?  Is that what you wish to steal from them?”

“Yeah,” he breathed.  “It’d be worth a t-t-ton.  And they say it’s a p-p-portal to their g-g-goddess.  The big oyster in the sky.”

“No,” said Phasma.

“No what, Captain?”

“No you will _not_ steal a holy object from an insane cult.  I refuse to guard your body if you deliberately put it into deadly situations.”  Phasma’s neck had begun to feel stiff, so she drew back enough to look him in the face.

“You’re n-n-no fun,” DJ complained with a smile.  He put the comb into her hand again and said, “You look exhausted, you should g-g-get some rest.”

Phasma realized she felt exhausted, too.  She loathed to admit it, yet it would be a way to get rid of DJ before she did something foolish, like try to kiss the mouth she kept watching, so she could find out how he tasted.

She announced, “Yes, I am tired.  You should go.”  DJ nodded and got up, but Phasma grabbed his arm before he was out of reach.

“I _do_ want to move to the ship,” she reminded him.  “We can remain here until the healer is satisfied with my progress, but—I can’t stay in this house much longer without going insane!  I want a real shower, and better food.”

DJ laughed and said, “Okay, f-f-fine.  I’ll c-c-come back in the m-m-morning and walk with you, case you n-n-need help.  It’ll be n-n-nice having you around again.”  He slid his arm out of her grasp but caught her hand at the end to squeeze it as he said, “Sweet dreams, Captain.”

“Good night, Kitten,” Phasma returned, for the first time using the silly nickname affectionately.  DJ wouldn’t know the difference, but that was kind of the point.

\--

To be continued


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning, DJ helped Phasma transfer back to his ship—or more accurately, he trailed after her as she returned to the ship on her own.  Tavia had put up less of a protest than DJ expected and said Phasma could relocate as long as she stuck around until her casts could come off.  Maybe, DJ considered, the healer was as tired of having Phasma for a houseguest as Phasma was of being one.

He did assist Phasma by carrying the First Order uniform, which she had commanded him to retrieve.  While folding it up, DJ had slipped Tavia’s religious book in between the jacket and pants.  He didn’t intend to steal it _permanently_ , just to borrow it long enough to crack the unfamiliar language and look for references to Ysthli’s Mirror.

 _Sorry Captain,_ DJ thought as he followed Phasma and admired the calf muscles of her good leg.  _No one tells me I can’t go after what I want.  Not even you._

Phasma headed straight for the shower once she was back aboard the ship.  She left the weird dress thing she’d been wearing outside the door, with orders to put it in to wash along with the uniform.  When DJ scooped it up, he noticed that it smelled like her.  So did the uniform, a little.  He managed to cram everything into the ship’s tiny wash unit, then headed up to the bridge while it ran.

 _Whenever we do make it off this planet, we’re gonna need a ton of supplies,_ he realized.  They had enough food to last a while—DJ had made sure of that when he made his bargain with the First Order—but there was a lot more to consider.  Clothes for one.  They only had three sets of clothing between them, and DJ had a feeling he’d end up in the dress if Phasma didn’t get something more to her liking soon.

Phasma didn’t have any shoes at all and had been going around barefoot.  They’d need more weapons too, medical supplies since he’d used a lot of them up treating Phasma, and whatever else she wanted.  Maybe. . . lady things.  DJ wasn’t exactly sure what all that category entailed, nor if the ship had enough of. . . those.  He was also afraid to ask Phasma for details, so he decided he’d just turn her loose wherever they stopped and let her get the stuff herself.

 _What if we end up fucking?_   The question occurred to DJ before he could block it out.  Not that Phasma would ever go for it—she was way out of his league, and she knew it, and he wasn’t even sure she ever thought about sex with anybody, much less with him.  _But **what if?**_

DJ added a few things to his mental shopping list, just in case.

Phasma came hobbling in soon after, and DJ tried to act like he hadn’t just been thinking about fucking her.  It didn’t help that she was only wearing a towel, like the last time she’d had a shower.  Her hair was still wet, and so were the bandages on her face and limbs.

“M-m-maybe you should change those,” DJ suggested without looking directly at her.  “Can’t be g-g-good for you to h-h-have soggy cloth all over your burns.”

Phasma muttered, “I would like to dispense of them entirely, but Octavia says I need them to protect the burned skin.”  She leaned forward to pick at one of the wraps on her leg, and DJ looked away from her cleavage guiltily.  Phasma added, “I will change them after you finish laundering my clothes.”

“After I _what_?”  He finally turned toward her as she sat down in the co-pilot’s chair and leaned her crutch against the console.  “Is d-d-doing your laundry a condition of this p-p-partnership we got g-g-going?”

“Yes,” Phasma replied so matter-of-factly, he almost missed the little gleam in her eyes.  DJ laughed and got up.

“You’re lucky I like you so m-m-much,” he teased as he passed her on his way to the dryer.

Phasma spent the rest of the day clomping over every centimeter of the ship as exercise to rebuild the strength in her good leg; then she retreated to her cabin and its bed early.  As for DJ, he stayed up almost all night scanning each page of the oyster Bible into the ship’s computer for analysis.  He crashed in his own cabin near dawn, and got thoroughly chastised by Phasma later for oversleeping.

Over the next few days, Phasma stayed outside most of the time to exercise, while DJ stayed inside on the computer, trying to decipher the book (which he’d returned to Tavia’s house without incident).  Even without Holonet access, the computer had extensive language information stored locally for speech translation purposes, and he thought that would be enough for him to do it.

Once DJ discovered that the book’s text was written in a dialect of R’lyehian, his task got a lot easier.  Although uncommon, R’lyehian was used by enough cultures for the computer to grok it, and DJ started an OCR program to translate his scans into something readable.  The results weren’t perfect due to the Moanan dialect, but they would be easier for DJ to figure out than the original script, which was comprised of hieroglyphics rather than letters.

Taciturn as Phasma was, she never asked what he did all day while she was outside, and DJ never volunteered the information.

\--

In the middle of DJ’s translation project, Tavia decided Phasma’s bandages could come off.  Phasma wouldn’t let DJ watch the process, and when Tavia boarded the ship, Phasma whisked the healer off to her cabin.  A bit later, Tavia came to the bridge looking pleased with herself.

“She has healed very quickly,” the octopid informed DJ.  “I think the casts can come off sooner than I’d planned, too.”

“G-g-good.  Phas doesn’t talk m-m-much, but when she d-d-does, it’s to bitch about those,” DJ chuckled. 

The smile fell off his face, though, when Tavia replied flippantly, “It won’t be much longer.  Pretty soon, she won’t need you at all.”  Her weird hazel eyes bore into DJ until he spun his chair away from her and went back to dicking around with the computer.

Since Tavia just stood there waiting for some kind of response, DJ muttered, “D-d-don’t think I ain’t thought about that.”

“Yeah?  So what’re you doing about it?”  DJ turned his head to give her an exasperated look, and the healer huffed and folded her arm tentacles over her chest.

Tavia elaborated, “You’re in love with her, right? So—”

“ _No!_   N-n-no I’m n-n-not!”

“—make sure she knows it.  I don’t think she gets it.”

DJ groaned, “She isn’t stupid.  And anyway, I’m n-n-not—”

“Phasma is brilliant intellectually,” Tavia informed him, “but emotionally, she’s dumber than a bottle of plankton.  You’re gonna have to spell it out for her.  Several times, probably, before she’ll believe it.”

DJ shook his head and went back to the computer.  Tavia drifted toward the bridge’s door but stopped before she got there and said over her shoulder, “If it makes any difference, I think she’s into you, too.”

“That’s ridiculous,” DJ grumbled without turning around, even though something prickled in his chest when he thought about the possibility.  It was a sort of nervous excitement, like what he felt when he got close to pulling off a job.

“Maybe it is.  But she was sure in a hurry to get out of _my_ house and go back to living with _you_ ,” said Tavia.

“Yeah, well.  I’ve h-h-hardly seen her since,” DJ said, hoping that would close the subject.  It didn’t.

“Have you _tried_ to see her?  Or have you avoided her because you’re nervous?”  When it was clear DJ didn’t intend to answer, Tavia added, “Maybe she’s nervous too.”

\--

Some time after Tavia left, Phasma returned to the bridge and sat down in her chair.  DJ tried to get a look at her without her noticing, but when he glanced over, she was staring right at him.

“Well?” Phasma demanded.  “What are you looking at?”

DJ sighed, “You look fine, Phas.”  She really did, in his opinion.  The bruises had almost completely faded from her face, and while the burned cheek still looked kind of messed up and bore a couple small blisters, the scraped side had only light scabbing.  Phasma scowled and sat looking out at the beach until DJ spoke again, cautiously.

“I uh, I b-b-been thinking about stuff we n-n-need.  You know, once your casts are off and we can g-g-get outta here.”

“What about it?” Phasma mumbled after a minute.

“M-m-moana’s out in the sticks, you know, that’s why I brought you h-h-here.  I was in too big a h-h-hurry to check out the n-n-neighborhood, but it m-m-might be a while before we find somewhere safe to restock,” DJ explained.

“Yes, and?”  Phasma cut her eyes over at him.

He suggested, “I think we oughta g-g-go check out Innsmouth, you know, where the spaceport is.  We could at least g-g-get you some clothes there before we set out.”  Phasma twirled her chair around towards DJ and looked him up and down very slowly before she replied.

“Get _me_ some clothes?  I suppose you believe _you_ are already the paragon of fashion.”

DJ was pretty sure she was teasing him, despite her deadpan expression, so he replied just as loftily, “Of course.  M-m-my style is timeless.  F-f-fits in anywhere.”  Phasma’s mouth twitched into a smile before she could completely suppress it, and DJ counted that as a victory.

“B-b-but yeah, I m-m-mean, I need stuff too.  I just d-d-didn’t think you liked. . . you know, wearing a d-d-dress.”

“I do not,” Phasma confirmed.  “But I am not sure how prudent it would be to visit any cities here.  We’ve been on this planet for a while now, and there is a chance someone has come looking for me.  Or for you.”

DJ asked, half seriously, “Who would’ve t-t-told on us?  Tavia, or the oyster b-b-boys down the road?  And you said n-n-no one would want you, so why’d they b-b-be looking for you?”

“I am not concerned that the First Order will take me back, but if they learn I have survived, they might find it prudent to eliminate me entirely,” Phasma tried to explain.  “The leaders will no longer trust me.”

“Why n-n-not?” retorted DJ.

“Because I have not attempted to rejoin them.  Essentially, I—I ran away with you.”  A touch of color appeared on Phasma’s cheeks, but DJ tried not to notice.

“You’d be dead n-n-now if you hadn’t,” he muttered.  “Look, just. . . think about Innsmouth, okay?  It’d only be for a f-f-few hours, n-n-not like we’d _live_ there.  And there’s a way b-b-bigger chance of us running out of supplies on the outer rim, than of some bounty h-h-hunter waiting for us in a little b-b-backwoods port city.”

Phasma clenched her jaw, but then she gave in and agreed with some reluctance, “All right.  I will consider it.  _After_ these casts are off and I have regained my strength.  That way, I would be able to save you from the bounty hunters.”  Again, she smiled, just a little.  DJ laughed, mostly with relief that the disagreement hadn’t turned into another fight.

He admitted, “Yeah, well.  Wouldn’t be the f-f-first time they came after m-m-me.”

“That, I can believe.”  Phasma glanced away from him and fidgeted, tapping her long fingers against the arm of her chair.  DJ watched in fascination.  _He_ fidgeted; Phasma never did.  Finally, she murmured, “DJ.  I. . . require your assistance with something.”

“Sure.  What is it?” he asked, intrigued.

Phasma dug through the pocket of her dress and produced a small jar with some yellowish goop in it.  She explained, “Octavia wants me to apply this to every place where I’ve been burned or cut.  She said it may minimize the scarring.”

“And you n-n-need some help, hunh?”  DJ was naturally pretty lucky, but even he could hardly believe his good fortune.  Phasma flushed but looked at him straight on.

“ _Only_ with my back,” she clarified.  “I cannot reach it all with just one arm.  If you touch me anywhere else, you’ll be drawing back a stump.”  DJ chuckled again; even her back was more than he had ever expected to touch.

“Just your b-b-back, I p-p-promise,” he swore.  Phasma raised an eyebrow but held out the jar.  After DJ took it, she shifted so her back was to him, and she reached to untie the bits of ribbon holding her dress closed at the back of her neck.

“Come here and help me with this,” Phasma demanded.  DJ got up from his chair and edged over to hers.

“Uh. . . d-d-do what, exactly?”

Phasma was trying to tug the open dress down past her shoulders, without much success.  She looked over her shoulder at him and said, “If you can push this infernal thing down to my elbows, you should be able to apply the medicine without me undressing further.”

“Um, okay,” DJ mumbled.  He wasn’t opposed to Phasma undressing further, or even completely, but doing any part of it himself made him nervous.  His hands shook when he grabbed the shoulders of the dress and pulled it down as she instructed.

Phasma’s back was in worse shape than her face, with several healing burns, blisters, and one badly injured spot that was still bruised with a thick scab.  DJ decided to risk her ire by touching her back gently near the injury.

“What h-h-happened here, Phas?”

She answered without getting angry, or showing much of any emotion at all: “Some debris fell on me and gouged through my armor.  It happened just before you reached me.”

“Oh, I h-h-had no idea.  Does it still h-h-hurt?” DJ asked.

“No,” Phasma replied shortly.  “Now get on with the medicine.”

DJ opened the jar and peered at the waxy stuff inside, which had a sort of citrusy smell to it.  “What _is_ this, exactly?”

“Octavia said it is lanolin, with fruit extract for scent.  Apparently, pure lanolin smells unpleasant.”

“This smells okay, just strong,” DJ observed as he dug a couple fingers into the lanolin.  It didn’t feel as gross as it looked, and it softened a little with the warmth of his fingers.  DJ put one knee up on the edge of her chair and knelt there as he spread some over Phasma’s bruised skin and the edges of the scab, then started rubbing it in with his fingertips.  He was afraid it might hurt, despite what she’d said, but Phasma showed no signs if it did.

At first, she sat still with a straight spine as DJ worked.  Yet the longer his fingers moved over her skin, finding the other fresh scars and smearing them with lanolin, the more Phasma’s stiffness faltered.  She downright shivered when DJ spread his hand over her lower back and rubbed it.

“Sorry, did I h-h-hurt you?” he murmured.

“No!” Phasma snapped, and she stiffened all over again.

“You sure?” DJ persisted.  “I d-d-don’t wanna m-m-make you worse.”

Phasma insisted, “It did not hurt.  It’s only. . . the scars, they are sensitive.”

“Oh,” said DJ.  He hadn’t touched any scars on her lower back, but he didn’t argue with her.  “D-d-do you want me to stop?”

“No, Octavia said they must be treated if they are to improve.  And. . . .”  He felt her back shift under his hands as she took a deep breath.  “Really, it feels—nice.  My skin has been itching as it heals, and you’re making it better.”

Phasma fell silent as DJ ran both hands up and down her back, in between the scars.  Her skin was surprisingly soft where it wasn’t damaged, but he could feel tough and knotted muscle just beneath it.  DJ applied a little more pressure and the tense knot shifted.  When he tried massaging the tight muscles between her shoulder blades, Phasma gasped and flexed her shoulders back involuntarily.

“H-how’s that feel?” DJ asked with a grin.

Phasma panted, “What did you _do_?”

DJ kept rubbing as he told her, “You’re tied up in kn-n-nots, Phas.  You ever have a m-m-massage before?  Or g-g-get your back adjusted?”

“A _massage_?” Phasma scoffed, even as she pushed back against his hands.  “As if I had time for something so frivolous.  And anyhow, I dislike being touched.  I never allowed anyone to do so, except for medical droids.”

“You d-d-don’t like being touched?  That explains a lot,” DJ said, but he was remembering how she begged for it when she was feverish: _Touch me, DJ. . . don’t stop touching me._   Her skin had been so hot, and her mouth so wet when she pressed it to his palm. . . .  Now, his hands trembled where they still rested on her back.

He ventured, “But—you let m-m-me touch you.  A little.”

“By now, I believe that you do not intend to harm me.  And. . . you are good with your hands.  Your touch eases my discomfort,” Phasma admitted.  DJ thought that was pretty close to saying she enjoyed it, and decided to keep at it.

He dug his thumbs into the knots and kept up the pressure until they abruptly loosened.  He rubbed the relaxed spots a minute, then moved his hands up to Phasma’s shoulders, just below her neck.  Phasma made a tiny, strained sound when he pressed his thumbs in there, but her shoulders remained tense.

“Relax, Captain, it’s okay,” DJ murmured as he massaged the pressure points with his thumbs.  He folded his fingers over her shoulders and squeezed them at the same time.  The tendons there made a cracking sound, and Phasma gasped, “Oh!” in a voice that made him crazy.

Phasma arched her back to push her shoulders into his hands.  The knots in her muscles gave way, but she hissed, “Don’t stop!”  DJ kept squeezing and massaging her shoulders, and she finally began to relax.  After a moment, she asked, “Where did you learn how to do this?”

DJ chuckled, “Heh, I’ve wasted a lot of t-t-time and m-m-money in casino spas.  Had a _lot_ of m-m-massages.”

“Oh,” Phasma said in that significant way she spoke when something displeased her.

“Real m-m-massages like what I’m d-d-doing to you.  N-n-not the dirty kind,” DJ clarified with a smirk.  It was even the truth, mostly.  He added, “N-n-nothing to get jealous over.”

Phasma made another eloquent noise to indicate that she was not, and never would be, jealous over him.  Which was likely true, but he still enjoyed teasing her.

When his fingers began to ache, DJ stopped and slid his hands out over her broad shoulders, then trailed his fingers down her back.  Phasma shivered again, and goosebumps raised under his fingertips.

“You’re awfully sensitive,” he observed.  “N-n-no wonder you don’t let people touch you.”

Phasma muttered, “It is not due to sensitivity, rather that anyone touching my skin would be able to harm me.  That is why I preferred to keep my armor on as much as possible.”  She was silent for a beat then said, “It surprises me that you let _your_ guard down enough for strangers to put their hands all over you.”

“Hey, I’m cautious, n-n-not paranoid.”  DJ ran his hands up Phasma’s back a second time and pushed his fingers into her hair.  Once he found the two pressure points at the base of her skull, he rubbed them gently.  Phasma cringed.

“Sorry.  I kn-n-now that’s gotta hurt, f-f-feels like you got rocks under your skin here,” DJ apologized.  He leaned closer to catch the scent of her hair as his fingers moved through it, but he ended up coughing, “D-d-damn, you smell like—like lemons now.  Whatever fruit Tavia g-g-got the extract from, it’s strong.”

Phasma retorted, “If you dislike the way I smell, you are welcome at any time to stop whatever it is you’re doing.”

“N-n-never said I dislike it, it’s just. . . lemony.”  He stilled the motion of his hands and said, “But m-m-maybe it’s better I stop anyway, d-d-don’t want you to be too sore later.”

“Perhaps that is best,” Phasma said, but when DJ drew his hands out of her hair, she leaned back as if to follow them.  He rested them on her shoulders and tried stroking the back of her neck with his thumbs instead—not massaging but just touching her.  Phasma sighed and bent her head forward.

DJ thought about what Tavia had said, and he murmured, “Phas?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you’re b-b-back.”

She sounded both puzzled and amused when she asked, “Back from where?”

“Uh. . . Tavia’s.”  DJ frowned.  Maybe Tavia had no idea what she was talking about, after all.

“Mn.  Why?  What difference does it make where I stay?”

Yep.  Tavia definitely got something wrong.  DJ dropped his hands and sighed.

“N-n-never mind.  Back’s all d-d-done, lemme know when you n-n-need more goop on it,” he said.  He screwed the lid back on the jar and set it on the console before he stood.  Phasma did not speak as she pulled each side of her dress up with her good hand.  She tried to tie it closed with that one hand, then gave up.  DJ bit back another sigh and tied it for her.

Before he pulled his hands away again, hers shot up to reach over her shoulder and grip his fingers.  DJ froze, half-expecting her to break them or something because he’d offended her somehow.

“DJ.  Thank you for your assistance,” she said.

“Yeah, sure.  N-n-no problem.”

“I am glad to be back as well.  I am much more comfortable here.”

“Yeah,” said DJ.

“I am. . . .”  She turned her head and pulled his hand down into her line of sight.  Phasma looked at DJ’s calloused fingers in her own paler hand and she began again, “I am—glad to be with you.”

DJ clenched his fingers around Phasma’s before he could think better of it, then brought her hand up and kissed its knuckles.  Phasma’s fingers twitched, but she did not protest.  After a second, she stretched out a finger along his lips, and he kissed that too.  Phasma tugged her hand free after that, but she drew her fingertips under DJ’s chin with the possessive little smile he liked, before she braced herself on the arm of her chair and stood.

“I’m going outside to exercise my leg,” Phasma announced, still smirking.  “When I require your services again, I will inform you.”

With his faith in Tavia restored, DJ grinned and said, “Yes ma’am, Captain.”

\--

To be continued


	10. Chapter 10

Tavia sawed Phasma’s casts off two Moanan weeks later.  Phasma decided to allow DJ’s presence, so he followed her over to Tavia’s home and watched, cringing until he was certain the healer wasn’t going to cut into Phasma’s skin too with the crude-looking saw she used.  When she pulled the last chunks of cast away, Tavia commented again on how quickly Phasma had healed.

“Not quickly enough,” Phasma muttered.  She swung her legs off the bed, moved the healed one back and forth experimentally, and stood.  She wobbled when she put her weight on her leg for the first time, but then regained her balance and tried a few steps across the guestroom.

“Well, h-h-how is it?” DJ prompted after Phasma stopped at the doorway and just stood there without turning back.

She kept silent for another beat then growled, “I’m limping.”

“That may improve over time,” Tavia told her.  “Or not, you might have screwed something up walking on it before I put the cast on.”

Phasma snapped, “You were supposed to _fix_ me!”  She pivoted on her other leg to glare at the octopid and added, “My appearance does not matter, but my functionality _does!_ ”

“You’re walking, aren’t you?  And your arm works!  I can’t work miracles!” Tavia retorted, flinging her arm tentacles in the air.  “Your body isn’t a machine someone can just ‘fix,’ and you’re not even one of the species I’m used to caring for, _and_ you literally just dropped out of the sky and I still took care of you!  I think I did a damn good job, considering.”

Phasma stared at the other woman with her jaw set.  She acted angry, but DJ realized she was actually just unhappy and disappointed—something about the way her eyes looked told him.  _Guess I’m starting to know her pretty well,_ he thought.

Aloud, he assured Tavia, “You d-d-did do a good job, and we’re grateful.  And Captain, I b-b-bet you’ll be fine.  Even if it doesn’t get b-b-better, you’ll adapt.”

Phasma sighed and muttered, “Nobody asked you,” but she came back over and stood beside him.  Watching her move, DJ could detect a bit of a limp, but nothing too alarming.  The other wounds on her legs had mostly healed, so except for the scarring, the only anomaly was that half of her right leg was almost white where the cast had shielded it from the sun.  Even though Phasma was too fair to tan much, the rest of her leg still looked golden in contrast.

Phasma elbowed DJ in the ribs—with her previously broken arm, no less—and hissed, “What are you staring at?”

“Those p-p-pretty stems of yours,” DJ replied with what he thought of as a charming smile.  Phasma glowered at him but without much conviction.

Tavia cleared her throat and announced, “ _So_ I believe this wraps up your treatment.  I’m declaring you two officially Not My Problem Anymore.”

“Lemme g-g-guess, you want us outta your back yard n-n-now, right?” DJ asked with a smirk.

Before Tavia could reply, Phasma interrupted, “How do you wish me to pay you?”

“Uh really, that isn’t necessary,” Tavia protested.  “DJ helped me out, right?”

“It is not his debt to pay.”

“Oh c’mon, Phas—” DJ began, and this time Tavia interrupted.

“To be honest, I don’t really anything from you.  Look around—where’m I gonna spend it?  I’ll just have to haul it over to Innsmouth when I go to get supplies, and I already have more than enough junk from the cult to trade for those.”

DJ glanced around when he heard “junk from the cult,” but he didn’t see any piles of treasure waiting to be redeemed.  Tavia’s comment did give him an idea, however.  He knew Phasma wouldn’t budge off Moana until she felt her debts were paid, and Tavia appeared to be equally stubborn; so he suggested a compromise.

“Okay so h-h-how about _we_ go get what you n-n-need?” he asked Tavia.  “We were already talking about g-g-going to Innsmouth—”

“ _You_ were talking about it.  I never agreed,” Phasma put in.  DJ ignored her.

“—so we could b-b-buy your supplies and drop them off h-h-here.  And if you wanna complain about m-m-me paying your debts,” he added to Phasma, “ _you_ can d-d-do all the shopping.”

Tavia chewed on her lower lip a few seconds then said, “Hmm, I guess that would be fine.  I’ll make you a list, long as you’re careful to follow it exactly.”

“Captain?”  DJ looked up at Phasma, who sighed and shrugged.

“Fine.  And congratulations on getting your way.  You really are a master at manipulating people into doing what you want,” she grumbled.

DJ taunted her, “You can’t always just use a b-b-blaster to do your p-p-persuading for you.  Stick with m-m-me and you might learn something.”

On their way back to DJ’s ship, Phasma stepped carefully through the sand.  Her limp was more noticeable on the uneven ground, but her healed arm didn’t give her any trouble.

“Guess you won’t n-n-need me to m-m-medicate your back anymore,” DJ observed.  He had been doing so daily, although even the deepest wound had mostly healed.

“No, I can do it all myself now that my arm is functional again,” Phasma agreed.  DJ mourned the lost opportunity to get his hands on Phasma until she went on, “But you are not getting out of massaging it.  I have become used to such treatment, so you will just have to continue it.”

“Yes ma’am,” DJ grinned.  “And if you think a leg m-m-massage would help that limp, I’m g-g-game.”

Of course, Phasma took the offer at face value and shook her head.  “I don’t think it would help.  The only remedy is continuing to exercise my leg so that I regain my strength.  And. . . loath as I am to admit it, you are right about something—even if the limp is permanent, I will adapt.”

To that end, Phasma decided to take up swimming.  When DJ expressed his shock that she even knew how, she retorted that in her former line of work, one had to be prepared for anything.

“It has been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to practice, but it’s a skill I need to maintain.  Besides, it will be good exercise for my leg,” Phasma announced.  She started to her cabin but paused and asked, “What about you?  I suppose you don’t know how to swim.”

“Hmph, of c-c-course I can swim!” declared DJ.  “Lotsa p-p-places I go have p-p-pools.  Not that I’m always s’posed to be _in_ the p-p-pools, but like you say—g-g-gotta be prepared for anything!”

Phasma smirked and swept her eyes over him and the layers of clothes he was wearing as she replied, “Well then.  I want to see what you can do.  Wait for me on the beach, all right?”  She disappeared down the hallway before DJ could reply, but it wasn’t like he could refuse and let her think she’d called a bluff.

DJ shed his coat, boots, and shirt on the bridge, then trudged down to the ocean.  There he stripped off his pants too and stood in his shorts, regarding himself morosely.  He had worse tan lines than Phasma did: his face and hands were brown from exposure to the sun, but the rest of him was almost as pale as she was.  He wasn’t in the best shape of his life either, after spending so much time inside working on his translation scheme.

“Oh well, n-n-not like I was gonna win any b-b-beauty contests before,” he muttered.  He took a few ginger steps into the water as a wave came in, and he yelped at how cold it felt.  Things only got worse when he heard laughter from somewhere behind him.  DJ gritted his teeth and turned to look at Phasma approaching.

“The water is c-c-cold!” DJ yelled.

She just laughed again and called back, “Good!  You need to toughen up, kitten!”  She was wearing what he guessed was underwear Tavia provided with her dress and a bandeau top that really just looked like more sailcloth—not quite a perfect fit but adequate.  DJ was far more interested in looking at her body than her clothing anyway, now that he could finally see most of it.  She was stunning, scars and all, and her rare laughter made her all the more beautiful.

“It is not cold at all,” Phasma declared as she came up to, then passed, DJ.  She dove right into the deeper water and swam outward, leaving DJ on his own despite her supposedly “wanting to see what he could do.”  He was a bit curious himself, though.  He _did_ know how to swim. . . just not very well or far.

After a little practice, DJ was pleased with his efforts.  _If we stayed here a while, I could get good at this,_ he mused when, out of breath, he stood waist-deep and watched Phasma’s legs whenever they emerged from the water at a distance.

_Yeah, but what’s the point?  Why waste time on a skill that won’t help me slice or cheat or steal?  I wouldn’t even be out here if not for her._   Phasma had called DJ a master at manipulating people, but there he was half-naked and freezing his ass off, and what’s worse, _improving himself_ , all because _Captain Phasma_ had told him to be there.  She was even better at manipulation than he was.

That one time, Phasma had said DJ looked respectable in uniform, that he could pass for an officer if he’d clean himself up.  DJ had shot that idea right down, because he had no intention of changing himself for any reason, especially not to impress someone else, and especially not for _her_.

_But that’s different, yeah?_ he decided. _Making myself look like something I’m not ‘cos she gets off on men in uniform—it ain’t the same as improving myself.  And is improving myself really such a waste of time, if I enjoy doing it?  Not ‘cos she tells me to, but ‘cos I **want** to.  She makes me **want** to do better._

DJ looked out and saw Phasma swimming back towards him.  The waves had grown stronger and choppier, but they propelled her in towards shore instead of away from it—and anyway, Phasma didn’t seem to have any trouble swimming at all, even out of practice with a freshly mended leg.

“Is that as far as you got?” she shouted to him over the sound of the surf.  “Pathetic!  You need discipline!”

DJ liked the sound of that, even if she did mean self-discipline and not _being_ disciplined.  He opened his mouth to yell something back at her, and a rough incoming wave promptly filled it with salt water when it hit him in the face.  DJ gagged, stumbled, and went crashing down onto the beach right along with the wave.

“Pahh!  Shit!” he swore as he spat out a mouthful of water.  His sinuses burned with it too, and he was pretty sure he had sand in his shorts.

“DJ!”  Phasma’s voice sounded unnervingly close, and when he managed to blink away enough grit to see clearly, she had already managed to reach him and crouch on the sand beside him.

“What the f-f-fuck did they put in this ocean, anyway?  Chili p-p-powder?” DJ grumbled in the hope that a joke would distract her from how ridiculous he must look.  Phasma grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head up so he had to look her in the eyes.

“Are you all right?” Phasma demanded.

“Yeah, I’m—let go, leggo!”  DJ swatted her hand away in just enough time to turn his head and sneeze hard into the shallows, twice.  “I’m fine,” he finished weakly.

“I thought you were about to drown.  Do not frighten me like that,” scolded Phasma.  DJ wiped his nose and turned back to look at her.  Based on her stern expression, she appeared to be serious.

He pointed out, “You said I n-n-needed discipline.”

“You still do, and you are still pathetic.”  The sudden little smile that played over Phasma’s lips made DJ want to beg for more abuse.

All the same, he defended himself, “I was doing j-j-just fine until you distracted m-m-me!”

“Then you should not let me distract you.”

DJ sniffed and wiped his nose again before accusing, “That’s kinda d-d-difficult,” with a gesture towards her.  Phasma looked down at herself.  Her legs were sprawled on the sand at an awkward angle from where she’d sat down in a hurry, and she ran her fingers over a scar on her thigh, then one on her exposed stomach.  DJ drummed his fingers on the wet sand to suppress the desire to touch them for himself.

Finally, Phasma raised her eyes and said, “Buy me proper swimming attire on your blasted shopping trip, then.”

“I’ll b-b-buy you whatever you want, but maybe I d-d-don’t mind being d-d-distracted,” suggested DJ.

“Hmph.  I should think you’d know better.  Not being able to maintain your concentration—it’s dangerous.”  She had returned to her serious expression, even though a clump of her wet hair had fallen into her eyes and made her look more bedraggled than anything else.  Phasma pushed the hair out of her face and tried to tuck it behind her ear, but it just tumbled loose again.

DJ chuckled and commented, “Your h-h-hair’s getting long.”

“I know.  It bothers me,” Phasma muttered.  “But _you_ certainly are not going to cut it.  Nor is Octavia.  I cannot imagine she is good with scissors.”

“I like it j-j-just like this,” DJ told her.  He reached out to touch Phasma’s wayward hair and, when she allowed that, stroked it along the side of her face.  Her hair felt stiff from the drying saltwater, and her scarred skin was rough under that.  The contrasting sensations made DJ’s fingers quiver with the need to feel more.

Phasma tilted her head the slightest bit into his touch and stared into his face with her mesmerizing blue eyes.  She held her mouth slightly open, and he leaned towards it.

“Phas,” DJ murmured hoarsely, “c-c-can, can I k-k-kiss you?”

Phasma’s eyes widened; then she turned her head aside, away from his hand.  DJ cursed himself for ruining what had been a nice moment and drew back quickly.

“S-s-sorry.  I m-m-mean I thought, m-m-maybe w-w-we, we—”  Unable to voice anything coherent, DJ grumbled, “F-f-fuck it, that was stupid, f-f-forget it.”

Phasma cut her eyes back towards him and studied his face before mumbling, “DJ, no—here.”  She grabbed his hair again and held him still while she leaned forward and kissed his mouth—quickly but firmly.  Then she sat back and asked, “How was that?”

DJ felt even less coherent than a moment ago, but he managed to breathe, “That—that was good.”

“You taste like the ocean,” Phasma observed.

“I should, I think I swallowed h-h-half of it.”  He watched her and tried to judge what, if anything, she felt.  She was still looking at him, but not into his eyes.  Instead, Phasma appeared to focus on the scar on DJ’s right cheek.

After a moment, she spoke again but only to say, “The water is getting rough.  Ordinarily, I would keep swimming for the challenge. . . but I don’t think I am strong enough yet.”

DJ let her change the subject.  One of his most useful skills was knowing when to stop pressing his luck.

“I think it’s b-b-been established I d-d-don’t handle rough seas well,” he said.  He got stiffly to his feet and bent to help Phasma up without asking if she needed it.  She accepted the assistance without protesting and grasped his arms to pull herself up.  That marked the last time she touched him that day, and DJ fell asleep that night still wondering what, if anything, she felt.

\--

To be continued


End file.
